


The Oracle of the Lavender Isle

by kiyyeisanerd



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bath Sex, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Meddling Deities, Past Character Death, Pretty Dresses, Somewhat Illustrated, Temperature Play, Violence, and they run away together, boat shenanigans, fantasy greece, like greece but uh fantasy, more tags to be added maybe???, porn with somewhat of a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-06-16 13:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15437868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyyeisanerd/pseuds/kiyyeisanerd
Summary: In light of his Grandmother's unfortunate passing, Jake English is feeling stressed, overwhelmed, and even more impulsive than usual. The perfect time to start a romance with a minor deity, right? A measly stretch of ocean does nothing to stop him from visiting the elegant, marble-white oracle Dirk on his lonely lavender island. And maybe plotting to steal him away, too.





	1. His Figure Fades Into A Silhouette

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is not my first time writing fanfic by any means, but it is my first time posting my work somewhere public! I hope you enjoy my silly story about magic boy Dirk and rich boy Jake hiding out on an island in a suspiciously greco-roman fantasy setting. The boys do, in fact, do the fucc. Also Jake's grandmother dies prior to the start of the fic, but there's nothing graphic about that. That's all I've got in terms of warnings!
> 
> Enjoy the first few chapters of this. Let's hope I write some more sometime :D

  
On the eve of your Grandmother’s funeral, a restless raven paces about the empty corner of your desk. Its talons find unwelcome purchase in the soft mahogany, a typical luxury throughout your house. You flick at the bird, chastising it for its insolence. It does not understand you, due to being a bird.  
  
You pull your hand away and hiss through your teeth when it pecks at your intrusive fingers. Pesky animal. You much prefer doves—or even pigeons—to ravens, but dark, unruly birds are the Dersian messengers of choice.  
  
Writing left-handed with a quill is tricky business. Your grandmother always said you were lucky to be a lefty: most children had it trained or beaten out of them. The recoil of your right hand from the raven almost causes your left to smudge the fresh ink of your letter. Stupid, ornery bird. Luckily, your penmanship is unmarred. You hold up the roll of parchment, blow on it to dry the ink, and read aloud to your inconsiderate guest:  
  
“ _Dearest Madame Peixes,_  
  
 _I am deeply saddened to hear you will not make it to tomorrow’s ceremony. The fate and well-fortune of your armada must of course take priority over traveling to meet my company. I pray that Hemera will soon shine upon your ships from betwixt the clouds of tumult so that they may safely reach the southern shore. I look forward to our next meeting, perhaps this candlenights!_  
  
 _With kindest regards,_  
  
 _Jacob English Harley.”_  
  
The raven tilts its head at you. You sigh.  
  
“Does it come off as sincere? I mean it to sound as if I give a damn,” you ask, worrying at your bottom lip. The bird caws, impatient. It’s clearly had enough of your frazzled, anxious self over the past few days. You suppose that ravens never really get any thanks for their work. Then again, they _are_ little pests.  
  
You resign yourself to being finished with your letter and roll up the yellowed paper. After rutting around in your drawers for a brief moment, you find the seal of the western shore. You pick up one one of your blood red candles and hold it sideways to let the wax drip in slow drops onto the letter’s seam. You have always found pushing seals into hot wax satisfying.  
  
“Please take this to Meenah Piexes, alright?” you direct the raven as you tie the parchment to one of its stubby legs with twine.  
  
It flies out one of the arched windows of your study the minute the letter is secured. Good riddance. Gods above, what a rude little creature.  
  
The sun is just beginning to peek its honey-colored face from below the horizon, and a slight gust of dewy air dances lazily through the lunette openings, as if following the bird’s exit. You slump back and rake your hands back through your disheveled hair, exhaling.  
  
This has been the most terrible week of your entire life.  
  
On the sixth day of Hekatombaion waxing, your dear old grandmother passed away. You were overcome with grief—are still overcome with grief—and took a full day to mourn the loss of your closest relative before you began... planning the funeral. Oh, the dreaded funeral. A single day of mourning may sound a tad short, but in your family’s tradition, funerals are to be held as swiftly as possible. And you know full well your grandmother expected you to orchestrate an elaborate, extravagant, beast of an event in her honor.  
  
It is now the ninth day, and you don’t think you’ve even been so damn stressed out, not once in your waking memory. This party is going to kill you, too, if you’re not careful.  
  
There are more than a hundred guests coming. Your grandmother had been something of a socialite; she inherited a house and a fortune upon coming into this world, and did nothing thereafter but grow said fortune through land investment and business-like agreements and so on. She was the regular host of fanciful rich people get-togethers at the family manor by the sea, and was friends with nearly every person in the country of Derse, it seemed like.  
  
You, in turn, were destined to build upon the wealth you inherited from her. This funeral is, in effect, the perfect opportunity for you to enter the waters of lace-curtain society, to make a proverbial splash with your impeccable planning and composure in the face of your caregiver’s death.  
  
But you were never a social creature. You learned eagerly and punctiliously how to speak with proper vernacular, how to talk your way around and out of a situation, sure. You’re good with your tongue. The problem lies in how often you isolate yourself in your room for days on end, sick of contact. In how you long more than anything to run away from your deceivingly small manor. In how your feet itch every time you pass by the rough, dirt roads leading westward out of Derse.  
  
Nonetheless, you are determined to make the ceremony tomorrow a success. Not that you’re gung-ho about all the planning you’ve had to slog through—or that you even really want to attend the thing, lordy, you are not big on parties—but you’ll be damned if Jade Harley’s funeral isn’t a momentous occasion. The Dersian shore will remember her for as long as city gossip exists.  
  
Right now you just need to finish cleaning the house, and then all of your preparations will be brought to a nice conclusion. You’ve been putting off this particular task because you’re none too excited about picking through your grandmother’s possessions, but you suppose you had better get it over with. The party will be upon you sooner than you know it, you’re sure.  
  
It takes you a moment to pick yourself up from your chair. You wobble a little on your feet when you stand, lightheaded. _Tsk, tsk,_ you imagine your grandmother’s voice in your head, _always remember to stay hydrated! One day I won’t be here to get on your tuckus about it!_  
  
You blow out your work candles in a quick huff and shuffle your way towards the door, straightening your collar. It’s a quick descent down the velvet-green carpeted, loosely spiraling stairs to the manor’s lower levels. The reason your grandmother and her parents could afford this place upon immigrating to Derse—aside from their already considerable wealth—was the unorthodox color scheme of the building. Some boneheaded architect had the bright idea to build a big ‘ol green mansion in the middle of Derse’s prime coastal real estate, knowing full well Dersian nobles prefered purple or grey. The place nearly wasn’t sold until your ancestors came along with their leftover Prospitian gold and boundless optimism. Jade never once suggested reupholstering to adopt a more violaceous theme. She liked the uniqueness of the green. Said it matched the two of your eyes.  
  
You pass through the atrium and pick up your pace a little. You used to love this room’s vaulted ceiling, its ornate columns, its tall, mullioned windows you could just barely perch upon as a child, but now the openness feels disingenuous. Hypocritical, even. This house can’t fool you—it can be as grandiose as it wants, but you are still indoors, and you are still trapped.  
  
Upon entering the downstairs kitchen, you are immediately struck with a wave of nostalgic sadness. Your grandmother’s cooking equipment still sits on the counter uncleaned. You begin stacking pots and bowls as sunlight creeps into the room, warm and obliging.  
  
The sun annoys you. Irrationally so, but still. You’re cleaning for a funeral. You wish the weather would get the bumblefucking message for once, and maybe act appropriately sepulchral given the melancholic nature of your chores. The melancholic nature of this entire week, more like.  
  
It’s ironic how truly Dersian you sound, cursing the sun in the morning. You’re sure Hemera is shaking her head and sighing at you from the heavens.  
  
Well, Hemera and her sun can go have a dandy cup of tea and be all hunky dory by themselves somewhere else. Away from you. You miss the moon.  
  
You open a cabinet, stack the pots in it, and slam the door in your vexation. A worrying crash sounds from inside. That’s... most likely a couple pots broken. You don’t even feel bad—you couldn’t give less shits about anything in this dumb house. You can hear your grandmother scolding you: _You’re going to wake Typheus with all that racket you’re making!_  
  
You open another cabinet to put some bowls away, but you’re quickly assaulted by the strong scent of dried herbs. Wrong cabinet, idiot. The hand-labeled jars of peppermint and lemongrass and basil make you crack a fond smile for probably the first time all day. Jade was a wonderful gardener.  
  
In the back corner of the top shelf, you notice a small metal tin marked “lavender.” Your eyebrows raise in surprise. You didn’t know your family owned any sacred lavender. Grandma must have been saving it for a special occasion.  
  
It’s too bad she’s bloody deceased now and will never be able to use it. That thought makes your temper flare, reminds you acutely of how lonely it feels in your huge, empty kitchen.  
  
You glance at the lavender again. Sacred lavender from the island of Amaranthine is a scarce luxury, even amongst the upper class. It is a resource so expensive that it most certainly should not, under any circumstances, be left in your possession. Your fingers twitch. You can feel yourself about to make a stupid and reckless decision.  
  
… You quickly grab the tin of lavender. It only contains one bundle. Briefly, you try to recall from Jade’s homeschooling how the plant works. Dersian magic 101. As the sole export of Amaranthine, lavender is the only plant capable of summoning the High Oracle. Only senators and very, very wealthy folks can afford prophecies from the country’s most mysterious figure, the effective mouthpiece of the gods.  
  
You don’t care about prophecies, so it wouldn’t be a big deal to waste a stalk or two, right?  
  
Summoning a divine being for company is a new low for you in terms of avoiding your responsibilities, but it will pass the time marvelously. And keep your mind off things. You’ve heard the Oracle isn’t a bad guy.  
  
Alright, yeah. You’re doing this. Why the heckleberry not? You shut the cabinet and briskly make your way in the direction of the marble patio overlooking the sea, out back of the manor. It will be nice to sit outside. On the way, you remember to grab your amber-lined firelighter from the candle storage closet.  
  
You step onto the terrace and seat yourself in a velvety, chartreuse lounge chair, placing the open tin of lavender on the short wooden stool next to you. The air carries the scent of the rosemary from your grandmother’s garden near the shore with a thick undercurrent of sea salt. The sky is still antagonizingly bright. You take a deep breath, adjust your hair to the best of your abilities without a mirror, and turn your firelighter upside down, turning the body to grind out hot sparks.  
  
The lavender catches. _It’s as good as decided, then_ , you think. You are going to spend the rest of your morning trying to converse with a quasi-deity, and you are going to enjoy the hell out of it. All your private tutors who accused you of being antisocial can suck on _that_!  
  
Smoke spirals off of the slow-burning stalks, emitting a pleasant aroma you’ve never actually smelled before, although you’ve heard wonders about it. You briefly ruminate over the fact that only the wealthy have a chance to know their own fortunes in this country, and how unfair that advantage is in practice. But your attention is shortly drawn elsewhere.  
  
It’s only ten seconds before he appears. A shadow of deep purple is cast seemingly by nothing on the floor of the patio as, like the smoke rising off the lavender, a figure begins to apparate. An even stronger lavender aroma hits you like a boulder, seemingly coming from the person—the Oracle. The air around him ripples like ocean waves and swirls in light shades of lilac until suddenly you can make out a pale-skinned, pale-haired man seemingly of your own age asleep on your patio.  
  
Asleep?  
  
You pause. _Asleep_. The man you assume to be the Oracle lies horizontal on the terrace floor, his elegant robe folding in gentle creases like dripping white chocolate over his pallid—not even pallid, literally marble-looking—skin. His hair reminds you of silk. You breathe in sharply, startled by the undeniable _beauty_ of him. In a statuesque kind of way. Like he’s a work of art, carved from polished quartz.  
  
 _Should I wake him?_ you wonder, stunned.  
  
As if on cue, the Oracle slowly blinks his eyes open. His eyelashes are probably longer than your fingernails, but they’re blonde, so they don’t do much to conceal his milky yellow irises. He seems to notice your presence and pulls himself up to sit with a start, brushing silk hair out of his face.  
  
“My sincerest apologies. You caught me sleeping on the job,” he says with a voice like liquid gold.  
  
When he speaks, you are _floored._ Nobody told you the oracle was so goddamn flipping pretty. And _god_ are you easily wooed. You’re sure this is some kind of conjured, spectral projection of him, allowing him to be summoned while whatever form he really takes remains on Amaranthine. That’s most likely how his skin is so pale, and how everything around him seems to glow a sweet lilac color. But still. Dear Abraxas above, somebody save your handily charmed mind from this man.  
  
You swallow. “No no, it’s no- no problem. I didn’t mean to wake you,” you stammer. Gods, you sound like an idiot.  
  
He laughs like tinkling bells. You think you almost faint. “Don’t apologize. It’s my bad. I’m not usually called on this early in the morning. Sloth really is my deadliest sin.” He gathers his skirt up in his ever so slight hands and stands, moving with obviously practiced grace. “It’s a pleasure to be awoken by you, Jacob Harley English. I am the High Oracle. You may ask me any one question about the past, present, or future, and the gods will speak through me to answer you to the best of their abilities.”  
  
His short speech sounds rehearsed and comfortable, like he probably says it every day. You don’t bother asking how he knew your name. Instead, you stare at him like a blockheaded schoolboy.  
  
“So, what will it be?” he prompts, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Right. A question. The Oracle stretches and yawns, and his shoulder pops quietly. You are distracted by the movement of the muscles under his thin, perfect arms. Question. Question.  
  
“Right! Well, I was actually just wondering,” you grasp at straws for something to ask, “how are you?”  
  
In a shocking turn of events, it appears that you’ve managed to flabbergast your guest as much as he’s flabbergasted you. His pupils shrink in surprise, widening the pools of goldenrod surrounding them. He opens his mouth and closes it again. “Is that-” he furrows his brow at you, “is that your question?”  
  
You beam in return. “Yes indeed it is, my good sir!” Thankfully, the spell the Oracle must’ve cast over you has passed, and you feel in control of your tongue again.  
  
He purses his lips almost in protest. “Are you sure you don't want to ask for a prophecy? I have plenty in store, I assure you.”  
  
“Nope, I'm plum perfect without a prophecy today. I just figured you don't get asked how you are a lot, so I'm asking!” You flash a grin at him. “How are you, monsieur Oracle?”  
  
The Oracle’s cheeks are colorless, but you detect a slight heat to him. After a slow moment, he smiles a half-smile back at you. “Well, alright then. You’re very thoughtful, Jacob Harley English. I've never been asked that particular question before.” He leans back elegantly to rest on the balcony railing, subtly crossing one leg in front of the other. You can tell by the shift of how his skirt falls. He thinks about your inquiry and taps his fingers. “I’m faring quite alright. I have a bit of a head cold, but other than that I'm enjoying my morning.”  
  
The corners of your mouth turn up. He's witty. You let out a breezy laugh. “I didn't know quasi-divine magical beings could contract head colds.”  
  
The Oracle rolls his eyes in good humor. The whites of them are almost the same color as his skin. “Nevertheless, I’ve contracted one. Funny how those things happen.”  
  
You lean forward a tad in your chair. The Oracle looks relaxed propped against your balcony. His stray hairs of pale silk catch the sun rising behind him in the same way the clouds do. You figure he isn't jumping to leave anytime soon. _Conversation,_ you muse, _is hereby deemed a success._ “So I see you already know my name. Just between us, I think it would be hardly fair if I wasn’t given the same liberty, by your good grace, of course. What should I call you?” you ask.  
  
The Oracle arches his eyebrows. “That’s another question, Jacob,” he responds. “I charge extra for seconds.”  
  
You can't tell if he's serious or not for a moment, but the playful squint of his dandelion eyes gives him away. “What might a gentleman like myself pay you with, then?” you counter.  
  
“Your excellent company, if I might ask so much,” he says, covering his mouth to hide a smile. Your companion is clearly enjoying the opportunity to exercise his clever, coy kind of sarcasm. You appreciate his art immensely.  
  
“If you indeed might ask for my company, I might be inclined to lend it to you,” you tell him, matter-of-factly.  
  
He bows his head in short laughter. The way his hair falls over his eyes makes you imagine that the wind is a painter, moving it in soft strokes. “Then I might, and I will, beseech it from you.”  
  
“And it is gladly given. So then I will, if I might, ask you again: What is your name?”  
  
One of his hands moves his hair back to its previous place, as if politely chiding the wind. He seems to almost have to think a moment to remember the answer you're looking for.  
  
“It’s Dirk,” he says. A look of soft reminiscence crosses his features. Perhaps it’s been a while since anybody asked for his name. It’s a rather short moniker for one of his status, though you suppose magical beings don’t need last names.  
  
“Dirk,” you repeat. It passes through your lips like the satisfying click of a clasp on a box. Your northern accent draws out the vowel more than his southern, more typically Dersian one does. “I’m a fan.”  
  
“Many thanks, Jacob. The gods gave it to me, I believe.”  
  
“The gods have as wonderful a taste in names as they do in people!”  
  
You can tell Dirk isn’t used to being complimented like you’re used to doling out compliments, but he handles it well. To his credit, he’s doing a marvelous job of distracting you from your chores and tomorrow’s— _ah, let’s not think about that_ , you tell yourself.  
  
“You flatter me too much,” Dirk drawls, his voice sending featherlight tickles down your spine. “I can’t help but wonder what you’re trying to solicit with your sweet adulating.”  
  
“I would hardly call it adulating!”  
  
Dirk fucking _giggles_. You might have lied about being able to control your tongue; it lays dizzied and mesmerized in your mouth. He retorts with a smile, and you swear he’s batting his freaking eyelashes at you. “What, then, might you call it, smith of words as you are?”  
  
Your wordsmithery is at an all time low right now. Luckily, your all time low is most other people’s high point. “If you would allow me to name it, I might call it simply ‘speaking the truth’, your honor.”  
  
“You never answered my original question,” he replies, dragging a hand lazily back through his hair.  
  
“Which? Ah, about-” you clear your throat, “about what I’m soliciting, yes. The truth of the matter is that I’m not soliciting anything other than honest conversation.”  
  
Dirk crosses his arms, clearly not believing you. When his arms shift, the top hem of his robe slips lower, exposing his shoulder. Blasted divinity and their blasted attractiveness. You don’t think it fair that the Oracle is allowed to appear to you as a bone-white purple-shadowed apparition while you’re forced to sit here in the flesh. You wonder if he would even be solid if you put your hand to him? He certainly looks solid, solid like porcelain, but there’s no telling what kind of fancy magic is making him up right now.  
  
“You’re bored, then?” he prompts. “Summoning me for nothing more than company seems like a rich past time. You are rich, yes?”  
  
You snort. “Did the mansion give it away? But yes, bored could be an adjective that one might use. I, a wordsmith as you know, would pick something more apt.”  
  
He squints at you. “Procrastinating, then?”  
  
“Something of the sort,” you sigh. “I must say, I am also just curious by nature. The lavender caught my eye, and when I realized that I had never met the Oracle, well, I needed to remedy that situation!”  
  
“Might I say that I am glad we are now well acquainted?”  
  
You laugh. “You very well might! And I would call that the truth for both parties.” Seeing your opportunity, you hold out your hand for him, as something of a conclusion to your introduction, formal-ways.  
  
He steps forward and shakes your hand, his draped sleeves slipping down his arm. You rapidly take inventory: he is, indeed, solid, and his hands are as smooth as they look. Smoother, even. However, you are unpleasantly shocked by how _cold_ his skin is. Not freezing, maybe, but much colder than your own. Despite his paleness, he didn’t give you the impression of an icy-cool sort of man. He looks lively. Pleasant. The chill of his marble skin does not match the waxy warmth of his eyes.  
  
He’s smiling when he releases your hand, and you smile in return. You wonder what he’s thinking about your hand? Probably that your palms are sweaty.  
  
“It has been a pleasure meeting you, Dirk,” you say, standing to be level with him. A breeze rolls off the ocean, tossing his feathery hair in every which-way and cooling your neck beneath your collar. “Would you care to sit somewhere more comfortable?” you ask, gesturing vaguely into the house behind you.  
  
Dirk nods in unvoiced affirmation and with that you begin leading him through the wide, lavish hallways of your emerald manner towards the library. You walk leisurely—there’s certainly no rush to get back to your detestable responsibilities. You know the Oracle is generally allowed to end his session and leave whenever the lavender is done burning, but that seems like more of a guideline than a rule to you. Chances are, he can disapparate and head back to Amaranthine whenever he pleases. So you take your time.  
  
Standing, Dirk is surprisingly almost taller than you. It’s hard to judge while walking. Your slicked hair admittedly gives you an extra inch or so, but his also has some height to it. You aren’t wearing any shoes, but then again, he isn’t either. His steps hardly make any sound at all, as if his feet aren’t actually touching the ground.  
  
You smile privately when you notice him staring up starry-eyed at the gold-trimmed skylights and arched ceilings of your home. He occasionally slows and has to pry his eyes away from the various artifacts or grandfather clocks stationed in your various too-empty halls. For decoration, of course—it’s not like your family is filled with hoarders.  
  
“I’m a fan of the architecture,” he breathes.  
  
“Never been in a wealthy person’s house before?”  
  
He scoffs at you, offended. “You think I haven’t been in houses nicer than this one? I have been summoned by every senator in this country. I live in the oldest, grandest temple in all of Derse, thank you very much. The thing that’s unique about this place is the _color._ ” His pace quickens with his enthusiasm, and you lengthen your strides to keep up with him.  
  
“It’s the only green house this side of Derse,” you mention, maybe bragging.  
  
“I’m well aware of that,” he answers, almost too quickly. You must have quirked an eyebrow, because he adds, “I can see it from my island. It stands out quite a bit. I always wondered who lived here.”  
  
The idea that Dirk had been admiring your house from the shores of Amaranthine his whole life brings a strange, prideful warmth to your stomach. You’ve often sat on your patio and looked across the sea at his home, the white columned temple on the lavender isle. Maybe you had once been looking at each other without even knowing it.  
  
You bring him around a corner and step into the library. It’s one of your personal favorite rooms in the house, certainly one of the most comfortable. The tall, mahogany bookshelves are characteristic of your manor’s unique style, some of the only real wood in Derse. They provide a nice reminder that trees really do exist. Not all the world is marble and sand!  
  
A woven, oriental rug blankets the stone floor and a set of matching lounge chair ottoman combos—green, of course—sit facing room’s the three thin windows. A ladder leads up to the railed platform spanning the second level of bookshelves, an easy way to access the whole collection. Your grandmother sure did love to read; the house’s architect apparently predicted that much with unprecedented clarity.  
  
As a child, you loved to lose yourself in books, but at one point your unspent energy simply exceeded your ability to sit still in one place for too long. You still appreciate curling up with a good novel every so often, but heavy reading is too much for you. Especially the educational kind. You’d rather at least read about action and adventure rather than dumb lunar cycles or boring dynasties of boring kings.  
  
The library inspires in you a pleasant, homey feeling that not many other places in the Harley manor are capable of evoking. Here the breeze only touches you through the cracked windows, just grazing your temples as you stop in the entryway.  
  
Dirk looks _delighted._  
  
When he turns to face you, you feel your heart lurch at the childlike wonder in his golden eyes. Not really wonder—more like admiration. “Your library is impeccably kept.”  
  
You barely have a chance to grin in response before he walks off in his slow-but-fast way to examine the titles on the shelves. The library was a good choice, it seems. One point for Jake.  
  
“Do you have a library on the lavender isle?” you ask, seating yourself in a wide-armed chair.  
  
“Oh yes,” he calls over his shoulder, thumbing over the spines of your grandmother’s books. “It has a rather unique selection of titles. Much different than what you have here.” Satisfied with his perusal, he turns on his heel, moves away from the shelves, and lower himself into the chair across from you. He adds, “Unfortunately, my library is mostly underground. There isn’t room for high windows or wooden balconies like this.”  
  
An underground library, huh. It does sort of make sense for there to be books and records and such kept on Amaranthine. The island is all sorts of sacred—hence the temple and the demigod—and thus would be a smart location to stash important texts.  
  
“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying the architecture,” you comment, teasing him a little.  
  
He laughs, his teeth an impossibly pure white. “I am, I am,” he assures you. “Did you collect all of these books yourself?”  
  
“No, I haven’t the patience or the gumption for that kind of collectors work! They were my grandmother’s.”  
  
His attention seems to catch on the word “were” and you notice something about him darken a subtle hue. He folds his hands… ominously.  
  
“Ah. The sixth day,” he says. His tone evens out to a monotone, the warmth from his laugh gone quick as smoke. You shiver. “My condolences. For her death, and for the event tomorrow.”  
  
Jeepers. You nearly forgot he was a genuine clairvoyant. Words come forced out of you like bricks, your proclivity for conversation just barely winning over your shock. “Thank you kindly. Say, you… read thoughts or some such talent?” You sincerely hope he can’t read thoughts, with the things you’ve been thinking.  
  
He doesn’t shake his head, but steeples his fingers to the same effect. “Not thoughts. But I can see some events, as they are written in the stars.” He ends that sentence like it’s enough of an explanation. You still don’t understand, but you’re probably not supposed to.  
  
“Your funeral is tomorrow, the tenth day,” he notes, quieter. “Good planning. Right before the moon is full.”  
  
“My funeral?” you ask, half-joking about the error in his wording.  
  
Dirk is unphased. “You’re the one who planned it. It’s your funeral, Jacob.”  
  
“Just Jake, please, your honor,” you tell him, a meager attempt to push the topic in a different direction.  
  
To your relief, he picks up on that signal, and lets his hands fall loose again. “Let us talk of something else. You are providing me a break from prophecies, and thus I will provide you a break from funerals.”  
  
And provide a break he does indeed. Dirk quickly brings up his notice of your texts on botany, and you proceed to have a _very_ in-depth conversation about your mutual love of perennials, and their unfortunate uselessness on the beach. You discover that all of the sacred lavender on Amaranthine is tended to by his very self, all harvested by hand. His being the sole caretaker of the isle must be the reason he smells like a walking talking lavender plant, you decide. He’s quite knowledgeable about the drying of herbs and, surprisingly enough, well-versed in varieties of plants he’s most likely never seen before, seeing that he lives on an island.  
  
You discuss his interactions with the Senators—in good humor, but not too disrespectfully, of course, because you never know who could be listening—and you can’t help but inquire about the semantics of his quasi-godhood. He doesn’t know as much as you thought he would about the whole ordeal. His real body does remain on Amaranthine when he is summoned, but he doesn’t believe himself to be a smoky sort of apparition. You almost suggest looking in a mirror and seeing if he still thinks as much, but think it too crass. Maybe he does just have ghostly pale skin? You don’t get into how he, uh, came into the world, but he does tell you he’s lived on the isle his whole life.  
  
Dirk talks with you until the sun approaches its lofty peak in the sky. His butterscotch eyes shine gold when the light catches them and his milky features glow like he’s been once-overed with a soft blending brush. You can’t help but imagine what he would look like if he were a mortal man, not divine. Or even if you saw him in his natural habitat, so to speak, on the lavender isle.  
  
You can’t help but imagine what he would look like in a lot of situations, actually. You foresee this apparent fascination with Derse’s resident demigod as maybe, just maybe, becoming a problem. If only for the fact that you don’t have another stalk of lavender.  
  
When you hear the tide coming in through the open windows, Dirk picks up his skirt and stands. “It has been a treat visiting you, Jake Harley,” he ducks his head and bends in what seems to you like a half-bow half-curtsy, “but I’ve kept you long enough.  
  
You frown, clearly disappointed, and stand with him. “Already? It’s hardly midday.”  
  
He nods and gives you a quick, forlorn smile. “You have duties to return to.”  
  
Your stomach sinks. Right. Duties. You had almost accomplished your goal of forgetting them entirely. You force a smile, determined to end your morning on a nice note. “I’m afraid you’re correct. As much as I would like to put them off…”  
  
“You musn’t put them off. You have a big event tomorrow,” he finishes your sentence, voice level. “I hope to see you again someday soon.”  
  
You bow your head. “Then we shall both look forward to the next time I come to possess lavender.”  
  
His eyes light up with something in the valley between hope and anticipation. “We shall indeed. Till next time, Jake.”  
  
As Dirk wishes you goodbye, the reverse process of his summoning takes place. His shadow falls in on itself, shrinking until he no longer casts one, and the air ripples as if from heat as he fades and dissipates into thin, lavender smoke. You catch his dandelion eyes one last time before you’re standing in your library all alone.  
  
It takes a long moment for the room to smell like wood and books again, the scent of him lingering.  
  
You sigh and sink back down into your armchair. It’s going to be a long evening.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thank you for reading to the end of this chapter! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Just wanted to add now that you've read Dirk and Jake's first interaction that this entire fic was inspired by this little comic I first saw on tumblr. Thank you to the artist :D  
> http://www.anatolahoward.com/post/161031846949/da-oracle
> 
> Also, all the chapter titles are lyrics from the fanfic's spotify playlist, which you can find here:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/kiyye/playlist/2ePagN8RoxzIg96A1JhpHn?si=Idip_WUdQWqodIu3X-yqtg  
> (This one is from Pretend by Bad Suns)


	2. Shouldn't Talk About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the one previous, but a whole lot happens! Jake hosts a funeral, has multiple breakdowns, and then receives an answer he didn't know he needed. Dirk wears a pretty purple dress ;)

It’s noon on the tenth day and, more importantly, the day of your funeral.

Not your funeral. Your grandmother’s funeral. But it might as well be yours too.

Only half of the guests have arrived, but you’ve already locked yourself in the bathroom on the top floor to collect yourself. The marble floor is cold and uncomfortable as you sink down ungracefully onto your ass, your back pressed up against the square wooden body of the sink. You close your eyes and fold your hands over your face, the bright white of the walls a little too much right now.

 _Deep breaths_ , Jake, you think. You are such a child, hiding in your own house from your own guests. Your collar is tight on your neck, and your face is hot.

You pull your knees up to your chest and open your eyes. You feel like the golden handle of the door is mocking you. _Look at me, I’m a door handle. I’m so shiny and expensive. You could pull me and open this bathroom right now, and be a capable host at your own damn event. But I know you won’t, Jake, because you’re a pathetic, useless boy, and your coat looks dumb, and your shoes are too pointy, and-_

You chuck a bar of soap at the door handle. You miss by a good foot, and the soap makes a hard thunk noise against the wood. It is now no longer a square shaped soap, but an irregular quadrilateral shaped soap. That is to say, a square shaped soap with one flattened corner.

Brilliant. So far at this funeral party, you’ve had an imaginary conversation with a door handle, and murdered a soap. What will you do next? Nobody knows. That’s the beauty of a quirky, charismatic host.

You groan and pick yourself up, kicking the soap into the corner of the room. Nobody will see it if it’s there.

… Unless they close the door after entering the room. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You don’t care. Maybe it will be a new trend. Keeping a nice little soap surprise in the corner of your bathroom. How quaint.

It’s only been an hour and you’re already losing your marbles. As you exit the bathroom, you hear the dreaded sound of chattering rich people wafting up the stairs, like a sickly stench. Your knees wobble.

Lucky for your grandmother, bless her spirit, you’re able to put yourself on autopilot when you reach the main level. Clever greetings and polite compliments slip out of your mouth like coins falling through a charlatan’s smooth hands. Your grandmother used to tell you to be sure to shake hands with each new person you meet—if a man has no calluses on his palms, he most likely has never worked a day in his life. This is excusable on a young person, but an older man with smooth hands must be either wealthy by inheritance or a con-artist. Or both.

Unfortunately, you’re not taking much notice of people’s hands as you make the rounds saying hello to bunches of eager socialites. Your thoughts become preoccupied, actually, with thinking about thinking about hands, rather than actually thinking about hands. You debate with yourself in the back of your mind, and decide that you need to invent a new adjective. A rich man or a charlatan’s hands would be smooth, but the Oracle’s hands—Dirk’s hands—were another texture entirely. Smoother than smooth. A kind of smooth that was innocent beyond mortal concepts of the word, fit only for the divine.

The voice of the domineering, pointy nosed woman talking to you sounds like buzzing bees as you daydream about the hands of your new favorite demigod. That you touched for literally one millisecond. And that you will most likely never touch again. You see lots of mouths moving everywhere, but you forget to start comprehending words, until the woman raises her eyebrows expectantly and draws you out of your daze.

“Well, I sure hope this will be a darned enjoyable evening for you, my good lady!” You say, hoping that’s an acceptable response to whatever she was saying. The carrot-nosed woman smiles at you, so you assume you did okay.

The crowd shifts, and you break from your small entourage to go get a drink, or maybe hide in another bathroom. You don’t even mean to wink at the group of young ladies you walk past, but you do anyways, and the way their cheeks flush and their eyes bulge honestly makes you feel kind of weird. You don’t have the constitution for your own charm. How silly is that!

It’s a hard two hours of socializing, spacing out, coming up with a witty one-liner, and socializing some more, before it’s time for any kind of speech. You’re at least pleased that your catering reservations worked out well, because everyone seems to be enjoying the food and drinks. You’ve sort of been avoiding consumables like the plague, because you don’t want to get sick.

What better way to deliver a speech than on an empty stomach?

Any way at all, actually. Any way at all is better than on an empty stomach. You feel dreadfully lightheaded as you step up to the podium you dragged out from the basement. Everyone is looking at you. It’s horrible. It’s too bright, and there are too many people, and you want to die a little bit.

Halfway through your speech—which you have written out, not memorized, you’re not that good—you start to choke up. You don’t even know what from. Is talking about your grandmother really making you emotional? Are you just freaking out, being up here in front of half the city? Abraxas only knows, but the crowd seems to lean in with sympathy as you finish up your heartfelt eulogy with tears in your eyes. As soon as you’re done, you leave your papers on the podium and walk the fuck out of there, out the side door to the hallway and then to the right. Your pace becomes brisker with every step as you storm down the hall. You pull the door to the main level bathroom open, slam it closed, and lock it.

It’s nearly 3:00 now, and you are in your bathroom sobbing. Sobbing in the downstairs bathroom is not much of an improvement from throwing soap in the upstairs bathroom, but you’ll take whatever you can get. You’re annoyed at yourself because of how stupid and puffy your eyes are going to look after this. You pull off your glasses and fling them halfheartedly across the room. The room is small, and, weirdly enough, carpeted, so they land gently and unsatisfyingly about five feet away from you. Who puts carpets in a bathroom? Whoever designed this mansion was absolutely off their rocker.

You’re grateful that nobody comes to look for you, at least. You hate this. You hate having so many people here, in _your_ home, talking about _your_ grandmother that half of them barely even _knew_.

You tire yourself out crying, pick up your glasses, and reluctantly stand and fix your face in the mirror. Your hair is a hot mess. So is your everything else, but if your hair is perfect, people most likely won’t notice the rest.

When you step back into the atrium, you receive many compliments on your speech. Wily looking men you’ve never seen before offer their sincere condolences. Young ladies look away shyly when you glance in their direction. It makes you want to cry again.

Other than your own failings, seeing as you're on the verge of tears the rest of the night, the funeral ceremonies go off without a hitch. To you, it’s mostly a blur of faces and handshakes and people talking. People who aren’t you, thank the gods.

You never want to talk again. The sun has nearly set by the time you’re ushering the last few guests out.

“Thank you for your time, madame.” You bow deeply as you show an elderly woman with a strange feathered hat to the door.

She giggles a little, and you think maybe she winks at you. Wow. Now you not only want to cry and sleep, but you also want to vomit.

Your limbs feel like lead as you drag yourself to your bed, and you’re out like a light sooner than you can say “exhausted.”

 

* * *

 

 

The incessant crowing of a certain pesky raven is what wakes you up in the morning. The sun, that trickster, is warm on your cheeks, trying to make you forget about the awful headache you’ve got and the wonderfully shitty memories you’re going to have to live with from yesterday's events.

You groan and blindly grasp for your glasses on your bedside table. The raven crows louder, and you shove your glasses on your face.

“What the bloody flipping fuck do you want!” You snap. You are not having this bird’s shit today.

When your eyes focus, you see a bright white rolled envelope attached to one of its legs with a thin piece of twine. The material isn’t any kind of parchment you’ve ever seen before, but that kind of makes you dread it more. Must be from a rich bastard if they can afford paper the color of a fucking cloud.

Another crow from the bird. “Alright, get your bird ass over here.” You grumble, motioning for the letter. The raven flies over to perch on your bedside table—“That’s mahogany, don’t scratch that”—and you clumsily untie the letter. When the twine is removed, your avian friend takes off immediately. Almost as if to spite you. What a dick.

You lean back against the headboard of your bed and unroll the white envelope. Within it you find enclosed an equally white folded piece of paper.

Your breath catches in your throat. Inside the folded paper is a single stalk of dried lavender. Written in black ink, lettered in perfect cursive, is a small note that reads:

“In case you need a prophecy after all.”

If you squint really hard, the period looks a little bit like a tiny heart. Did he do that on purpose?

No, no, you’re getting ahead of yourself. But he— _Dirk_ —did, in fact, send you a stalk of sacred lavender through the mail. Gods above, it’s called sacred lavender for a reason, that reason being it’s expensive as all hell! You feel almost dirty receiving a special, personal gift from a near god.

You stand up, the trials and tribulations of last night forgotten. This is like a second date invitation, right? _Not a date, Jake, heavens_ , you tell yourself. You need to stop thinking about him like you would a young lady. As far as conventional wisdom goes, boys are not to be thought about that way, and neither are the divine.

But you've never been one for conventional wisdom.

Dirk thought of you, personally. You wondered if he was sitting on the shore of his island right now, looking across the sea at your manor? You doubt you could see him from this far away. Maybe if you found a pair of binoculars.

You tenderly wrap the lavender up again in Dirk’s note and set it on your bedside table. You shouldn't summon him right now, should you? You don't want to seem too eager. No, better wait.

You spend your morning lazing around in your bed and attempting to recover from your social interaction hangover. It’s sort of pathetic, yes, but you need to recoup. You silently curse the fates for this role your grandmother has left you in.

You receive three more ravens and one carrier pigeon before you even fully wake up, all carrying letters of gratitude from various guests you may or may not have talked to at the funeral. All of them compliment your speech and your choices in wine. None of them have parchment quite the color of the Oracle’s letter to you.

Sometime around midday, you drag yourself out of bed and throw on clothes. You'd avoid wearing jackets entirely if you had your way, but unfortunately your position often requires formal dress, so it’s a rare treat to be able to dilly dally around the house in a simple, sleeveless tunic. You decide cooking would be too taxing on this particular morning and settle for eating a singular fig. Breakfast of champions. But more like lunch. Brunch? No, that’s a stupid word. Nobody in the world would ever use that word, especially not in the near future.

In the afternoon, you spend an hour lying on the patio. Not on a rug or anything; you just lie on the floor. Only one raven comes to bother you with a letter as you ruminate.

The first time you summoned Dirk, you were essentially wasting a chance to know your own future. You had done that on purpose, in an attempt to avoid the allure of knowing. Even figuring out simple truths about yourself sometimes made you feel funny, so Abraxas knows what hearing your whole future laid out would do to you. But your cunning plan has been thwarted by the seer himself. Dirk provided you with a second chance. This time, you are unreasonably tempted to ask for something useful. Something akin to a real prophecy.

You don’t know what you want to know, or when you want to know it, but embarrassingly enough, you know that you really and truly want to see Dirk. Sprawled ungracefully on the floor of your terrace, the memory of him seems like the clouds above you. Unreachable, unexplainable, and unbelievably perfect in a way that defies the laws of the world. And yet, unlike the clouds, you have the power to call him right now and actually touch him.

Maybe not touch him. You’re moving a little quickly there, sport. The fact of the matter is, there is nothing stopping you from talking to him this very second.

 _Except maybe how godawful you probably look right now,_ you realize with a start. The sun is already past it’s peak and you still look like a tactless bum. _Put on a real shirt, you dunce._ In a fit of defiance against inertia, you stand up posthaste. You find yourself worryingly lightheaded, and sway a little on your feet. Ah. That’s most likely because you’ve only eaten a fig today. Huh. Deja vu. Maybe you should put some nutrients in your body for once, so you can stop almost passing out every time you stand.

After cleaning yourself up and forcing a real meal down your throat, you tug on your favorite vest and descend the wide, railed stairs, Dirk’s letter in hand. You cross through the atrium and step through the open, arched passage to the terrace. Settling down into your armchair, you steel your nerves. _You are doing this! You are going to ask him a question, and you are not going to be a big arse baby about it._

The tray in which you burned last session’s lavender is still where you left it, along with your firelighter. You could have sworn you put that away before the funeral, but apparently not. You hope your guests didn’t notice. Straightening your collar and running a hand through your hair, you pluck the lavender enclosed in the cloud-white envelope from your vest pocket.

This stalk catches faster than the other, and thus the Oracle appears for you faster. Just like last time, his shadow appears first, ethereally purple, and a second later his apparition forms out of lilac smoke. This time, when he’s fully formed, he’s standing up. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. At least he’s not asleep.

On this particular day, Dirk is wearing a dressrobe of a deep, rich plum color. The collar cuts across his shoulders like the ink of his writing into the pure white of his letter. He looks like if a star was to grab the night sky and wrap it around itself like a blanket.

“Evening.” He does his graceful little bow-curtsy, and looks up at you with his eyes of molten butterscotch.

After you banish the mortifying look of pure rapture that crosses your features for much too long, you stand and manage a pleased smile and a bow. “Dirk. Once again, it is an honor.”

Dirk looks a new level of pristine, more put together and polished than your last encounter. The setting sun behind you makes his skin shine like a reflection of the moon on water. _He must have outfits for different parts of the day_ , you think, because his dark robe is practically the epitome of an evening gown. He leans back on the balcony rail, and smiles at you warmly. “You received my letter, I see.”

You let out a laugh. “This morning, yes. I hope I didn’t call you back too quickly.”

He shakes his head, his smile crinkling the sides of his eyes. “Oh no, not at all. I found myself getting rather impatient waiting.”

That……..

Catches you off guard. He was waiting for you. You desperately try convincing your brain to stop thinking about that, for fear of the heat rising in your cheeks. Good gods. He was _waiting_ for you. You gesture aimlessly, and tell him, “Then I’m glad I didn’t keep you waiting too long!”

Dirk raises his eyebrows. He’s clearly onto you. Mercifully, he chuckles and asks you, “So what sort of a question do you have in store for me today?”

You fold your hands in your lap. “A real one, actually.”

He seems honestly surprised by this, and for a moment you worry maybe he was just expecting another conversation, but he seems more interested than anything. “Oh? Ask away, then.”

“Right now? No ceremonial prayer, or anything?” You jest.

That pulls a laugh from him. “No, no candlelit circle required. But don’t tell the senators that.”

You giggle and teeter on the edge of a widening grin, but the weight of your question flattens your lips into a line. You breathe in deep, and set your shoulders. “Alright. Here is my question for you, Oracle. It deals with the future.” Dirk hangs on each of your words.

You ask, “Am I destined to do what I did yesterday for the rest of my life?”

Dirk’s expression drops, and something like concentration clouds his eyes. He dips his chin and seems to think for a minute. You look him over nervously, your breath coming quicker than you would like it to.

Just slow enough to be agonizing, Dirk lifts his head, and his eyes of gold seem to pierce into your very soul. His eyebrows knit together in what looks like… pity?

“No.” He tells you, short and simple. You feel your throat close up. You aren’t sure what answer you were hoping for, and now that you have one, you aren’t sure what to do with it.

Dirk continues. “You don’t belong here. You have the feet of a traveler and the heart of a lover. By experience, you are a socialite, but by nature, you are a thief.”

You swallow, his words swimming around in your head like discordant notes. “If I am a thief, what am I to steal?” you ask, voice small.

“Something that you want very badly.” He replies. "Something that warrants stealing." His eyes soften all of a sudden, like he’s noticed your distress, and you think, _Gods above, I must look like an idiot._

“Do you have any idea about the specifics of…” you trail off as Dirk shakes his head before you can even finish your sentence, as if he knew you were going to ask that.

He temples his fingers in front of him. “I’m sorry. I never really know what anything I say means. But that’s all the gods-given truth.” Your stomach is churning trying to digest the vague, cryptic information you were just given about your future. You should have been prepared for this kind of riddle-ish answer, but you sold the gods short on their ability to confuse you. You’ve never stolen something in your life, but there are many things you want very badly. Maybe you're selfish, but somebody has to be, or else people would just talk in circles all trying to be the most generous.

Altruism is not one of your virtues, but you wouldn't necessarily call greed a sin.

You close your eyes and take a moment to center yourself. When you open them, Dirk is leaning in towards you, his head slightly tilted. “Is that answer what you were looking for?” he asks, his tone striking a welcome, tender chord.

You nod, meeting his eyes. “Thank you.” Some invisible road that was stretching the perceived distance between you suddenly snaps, and you find your face embarrassingly close to his. You leer backwards and plant your hands on your armrests. Next to you, the stalk of lavender is already burning short. You have a feeling that this late in the day, your guest doesn’t have time to stick around until twilight.

“You could always come visit me.” Dirk blurts out, looking like he was just betrayed by his own words. “If you-” He stops and starts again, “If you want to see me again, you could always come to Amaranthine. It’s not far from the shore.”

The Oracle stands back, leaning against the railing again. The neckline of his robe slips lower, exposing more of his bone-white skin, smooth as marble. You are grateful for that distraction, but remember his invitation after a second of staring. “Do people ever _go_ to the Lavender Isle?”

He shrugs in that elegant way he always does. “Do people ever receive letters from Oracles?” Your heart nearly skips a beat, and a smile slips onto your face, sheepish.

“Then you can expect a visit, your honor.” Practiced charm makes its way into your intonation, alleviating the weight of your bewilderment for the moment.

Dirk’s eyebrows shoot up, taken aback. He parts his lips as if to ask, “Really?” but instead he smiles at you, pleased. “Then I’ll be waiting.” To your surprise, his shadow starts to shrink, and the tips of his feet start to dissipate into smoky purple vapor. When you look beside you, the stalk of lavender is nothing but ash. You stand up quickly, halfway between asking him to stay and doing something much more foolish.

He takes your hand. His fingers are still as cool as ocean water, and thinner than you think is healthy. Small, greyish veins lay half-visible under his palms. Your thumb rests over his and you wonder how warm you must feel to him.

“I have to be going, now.” His lips look like they might be as cold as his hand. You fight against the urge to confirm that suspicion. “But I’ll be waiting for you.”

His fingers evaporate into curls of smoke in your hands—weird sensation, feeling someone’s skin disintegrate—and quicker than a forgotten dream, he is gone. You stand there for a long while, running your thumb over your palm where he touched you. Behind where he stood, you can see Amaranthine in the distance, the small silhouette of an island temple.

You take a step to the railing, and lean out over it. The Lavender Isle can’t be more than an hour’s row. You know where you’re going tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus content for this chapter: here are some super old lavender dirk doodles! http://kiyye.tumblr.com/post/176457247083/bonus-doodles-of-oracle-au-dirk-these-are
> 
> Also, title is from Stolen Dance by Milky Chance


	3. Unsound Intuition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake journeys out to the mysterious island on the horizon for a quick visit. Or maybe not so quick, as far as Dirk's concerned. Jake does not know what to make of his mystical demigod bf. Also, he finally gets some. Warning for sexual demigod-fucking content!

When the moon is high in the sky and the starlight bounces off the restless sea like tiny drops of liquid silver, you one-handedly pull a wooden rowboat across the sand to the shoreline. You carry a woven satchel slung over your shoulder and, in your other hand, an oil lantern. The navy water that laps at the shore looks inviting and amicable, coming in lazy strokes, despite how chilly you know it must be at this hour. Determination bolstering your footsteps as you drag the boat behind you, you huff at slight breeze on your cheeks. It’ll be harder to row with that, but that’s not going to stop you.

You gratefully let go of the boat a foot from the water, and push it a little ways further. The sound of wood against sand is gratifying—it has a sense of finality to it, you think. You drop your satchel into the back and climb into the belly of your small, creaky vessel. You hardly need the lantern you brought with how bright the moon is, but you set it down carefully by your feet nonetheless.

The ocean is incessantly quiet, the gentle waves barely making any sound, and you half feel bad for disturbing it. Rubbing your hands together, you grab the two wooden oars from the bottom of the boat and use one to push yourself off of the sand and into the sea.

As soon as you steady yourself against the rocky buoyancy of the fully-afloat rowboat, the wind seems to let up for you. That seems like more of a favor than anything else, and you thank Abraxas for the good fortune. You lean forward and with deliberate, strong strokes, paddle your way forward, to the east. In front of you, you can see the faint silhouette of Amaranthine and its sacred temple. You turn around and behind you your manor seems almost like it’s retreating, instead of you moving ahead of it. A smile finds its way onto your lips. You sincerely hope that nobody is awake to see you in your tiny, lantern-lit boat, rowing your way to Derse’s sacred isle. Even though nothing you’re doing is forbidden per say, you still get a rush from the noiselessness of the ocean—like it’s keeping your secret for you.

Rowing takes longer than expected, but you’ve plenty of arm strength to tough it out. The closer you get to Amaranthine, the clearer you can see the famed temple that it houses. Tall arches and columned pavilions stand out, a stark white against the black sky. What you can make out of the architecture is Dersian in nature, reminiscent of your house and all the houses within an eye’s reach of it. But there is something so _old_ about it all, you truly feel like you are looking at someplace ancient. A small, faint speck of light seems to hover somewhere in front of the temple. Your arms aren’t yet tired of paddling before you’re close enough to make out the details of the shore, and at that point your excitement reinvigorates you.

Unsurprisingly, you can see a plethora of flowers and vegetation climbing the columns of the place. Apart from the thin stretch of sandy coast, every inch of land between the building and the sea is overrun with grasses and other flora. A marble set of stairs cuts through the plants, noticeably more well kept than the various stand-alone columns littered around the island, crumbling and dilapidated in a charming, historical way. As you draw closer, you squint at the small, bobbing light to try to discern where it’s coming from. In response, the light bounces upwards. You squint harder and realize with a start that it’s coming from a lantern.

You are now just close enough to see a thin, robed figure standing on the steps, one arm raised in- _Oh_ , he’s waving to you. Something in your chest floats up sweet and drunken into your head, and you smile as big as your face will allow.

Oh dear. You can hear your grandmother’s voice diagnosing you right now—this is, very clearly, a bad case of _infatuation_.

How long has he been waiting on the steps for you? He couldn’t have known you were coming tonight, specifically, so he couldn’t have been sitting here since your conversation earlier. But he is the Oracle, so then again. Future-seeing is supposed to be in his wheelhouse.

You decide you’ll simply have to ask him, and you raise your arm, waving back.

You are now a mere few feet from the shore of the lavender isle, and the Oracle starts walking down the temple stairs to meet you. You row right up onto the sand, drop the oars below you, and step out onto the island. Dirk is wearing yet another outfit, this time an airy but opaque robe of pinkish silk, drawn taut around his waist with a woven belt. This close, you can see the pleasant curve of his smile. You drag the boat further up into the sand, far enough so that the tide won’t reach it, and turn face to the splendid, moonlit man you are—ah, visiting.

“You really seem to be fond of waiting on me.” You quip, raising an eyebrow. This is the second invitation Dirk has given you, and the second you have responded to within the day. He is admittedly very compelling, and you are admittedly very impatient. So you already guess his retort is going to be a joke about predictability or eagerness. Something clever like that.

“And so far you haven’t disappointed me.” He replies, softer and sweeter than you anticipated. Huh.

As you near him, you look him over, and your brows knit together. It is indeed dark and hard to see, but...

“By the great and elder gods, you look the same color as the damn marble.” The man in front of you is… exactly the same one who appeared to you back at your manor. As pale as a ghost, with irises of golden-white cream, so light they’re almost translucent. His lips are practically purple in the cool illumination of the night. You look at him maybe too worriedly, because he tilts his head in apparent confusion.

“Yes? I've always looked like this.” He tells you, squinting.

You stammer and nearly bite down on your tongue. Your hands fly up, gesturing to try and authenticate your point. “Well I thought- I thought you were just a fanciful kind of projection! Made of magic and such!”

He chuckles lightly and puts a hand over his mouth. _Gods_ , why does he have to be like that? He replies, “No, I’m not made of magic. I’m just as solid as you are.”

You attempt not to gawk at him. “Are you sure that’s healthy?”

Dirk rolls his eyes. “I’m practically immortal. It’s never been a problem.”

Accepting defeat, you duck your head and bend down to pick up your belongings from the beached rowboat. The glow of your lantern is a harsh yellow against the more atmospherically appropriate whitish pink of Dirk’s light. His was most likely built to suit the island.

You crouch, sling your satchel over your shoulder, and, when you stand back up, you’re met halfway with Dirk’s extended hand, palm up. He flashes a small smile at you. “Want me to show you around?”  
  
Your stomach does a somersault and you think maybe this is what it feels like to fall for someone. “Naturally.” You answer, grinning. You take his hand and it feels as cold and smooth as the quiet, indigo water behind you.

 

* * *

 

 

As the two of you climb the marble stairs, you put out your lantern, letting it hang in your non-occupied hand. Only the pale moonlight and the rosey wash of Dirk’s lantern light your way.

You tilt your chin up and nearly gasp at the temple around you. The columns of the entryway look much taller when one is standing beneath them. A few scattered columns and arches tower above the rest of the island, but the majority of the structures don’t reach too high above the ground. You always imagined the temple of Amaranthine to be some grand, hulking white beast of a thing, but up close it’s less of a temple and more of a… large garden?

The Oracle leads you down a marble path, stalks of lavender and other plants leaning in from each side. You can see the tops of some buildings ahead of you, but it’s very open here. He practically has to drag you along as you take in the flora, your pace slow and distracted.

“This sure is a lot of sacred lavender,” you remark, raising your eyebrows at him. “I almost feel sacrilegious walking through it all.”

Dirk looks back at you. “Don't be silly. It’s not all sacred.” He lets out a laugh at your look of genuine surprise. “Who in their right mind would plant a garden with only one kind of flower?”

Is he kidding? _No_ , you decide, _he's not, why would he joke about that._ “I thought the lavender became sacred just by virtue of growing here. Doesn't it get infused with the place’s magic or some kind of fancy thaumaturgical malarkey like that?”

He shakes his head and motions you to a stop. “No,” he tells you, bending down to pick a stalk of lavender from the side of the path, “the sacred kind is just one certain cultivate. But it does only grow here. Try to plant it elsewhere, and it’ll wither up and die within the hour.” He turns and holds out the freshly picked plant to you. “This is folgate lavender. It’s one of my favorites. Typically it's the first bloomer when the season starts.”

You look from Dirk’s face to the lavender, and then back to Dirk’s face. “For me?”

He breathes out, amused. “Yes, Jake. For you.” He pushes his hand even closer.

You pluck the flower from his fingers and smile to yourself. “It’s beautiful.”

Dirk seems pleased with his handiwork and he takes your hand again, urging you along the path. The lavender he gave you is colored less of a purple and more of a soft periwinkle, thin with small, tight buds. You try to spot the differences between it and the dried bunches you burned back at your manor, but you fail to recall any useful details. You resolve to tuck the plant into your vest pocket.

“Amaranthine isn't huge, but it feels bigger with all the garden space.” The Oracle tells you over his shoulder as you continue deeper into the island. “There are a couple buildings. Nobody really lived here before me, so they’re not built like homes, but I’ve done what I can.”

To your left, you see a rectangular marble structure with a curling path carved out to it. There’s only one full wall on the place, and the other three are sets of triple arches, wide and open. It’s dark inside, but you can make out a working chair and a counter of sorts.

“That’s my work house.” Dirk waves a hand in the direction of the pavilion. “I've repurposed it so I have somewhere to store all the plants. And somewhere to cut them.”

You didn't think much about it before, but you suppose he really does have his hands full doing all the upkeep around here. The lavender has to get cut and dried and wrapped up by somebody. You wonder how much he ships out to the shores each year. You try to peek into the workhouse, but your host’s pace is lively, and you don't catch any more glimpses. It's sort of nice, being a guest for bloody once.

Dirk points across the garden to an identical structure on the other side. “That’s the new atheneum. Both of these buildings used to be libraries, but I moved all the books and records to that one.”

Your face visibly lifts, and you gasp dramatically. “I remember you saying you had a library!” Remembering further, you purse your lips, “But I also remember you saying it was underground.”

Your host nods and raises an eyebrow at you. “Good memory. Both buildings have cellars; the west pavilion cellar is for storing herbs, and the east pavilion cellar is for storing books.” The corners of his mouth are turned up, charmed. “So the above ground level is just a sitting room, with only one little shelf for my recent reads.”

You think an underground library sounds positively fucking brilliant. “I’ll have to visit.” You tell him earnestly.

As you draw closer to the center of the island the night air draws a shiver out of you. The sky is as dark as earlier, but it’s the middle of the night now, and you feel a stillness settle around the two of you.

The path you’ve been following leads to a clearing with a simple marble fountain, and to the back of it you see two gazebos, the further of which is larger and more solid in its construction.

At some point during your walk you stopped holding Dirk’s hand—you can hardly believe you didn't notice when—so he beckons you forward with both arms. “This,” he turns on his heel to face the smaller gazebo, “is the center pavilion. I come here after I'm summoned.” 

You look at him quizatively. “Come here-”

“Come here as in appear here. Magically. With magic.” He finishes for you.

“Golly,” you half whisper. You wonder what it feels like to appear magically.

The center pavilion is an ornate little structure, made of the same fine white marble as every other part of the temple. The top of it looks to you like that of a very beautiful very large bird cage, chiefly made up of interlocking marble columns and waves, arching into a dome. Below, six doric columns hold the roof up, built upon a three-stepped circular foundation. The standing room inside is half taken up by two stone benches, and only comfortably big enough for a couple of people.

Dirk steps into the pavilion and walks through, weaving out of its supporting columns, his pace beckoning you to follow. In front of you, he walks wordlessly to the front arches of the larger, more imposing gazebo. Of all the buildings on the island, this is the only one that strikes you as something out of a true temple. The marble is solid, well kept, less cracked and worn than you’ve been seeing thus far. Unlike its smaller companion, it’s walled off in the back with no windows, and a pinkish light like that of Dirk’s lantern spills out through the front three open entranceways.

Dirk stops and turns, one hand resting on a column that he half-leans onto. “This is our stop.” He nods at you to follow him in.

You move towards him and the lantern lit room and as you step inside you realize this must be his bedchambers. Your breath halts in your throat at the... social implications of that. A wooden writing desk, not unlike your own back home, stands to the side of the room, atop it a small collection of dried plants and papers and other paraphernalia. You think you see a couple sketches and a set of paints. Other visible furnishings include the lanterns hanging from the rounded wall, an extraneously large wardrobe, and a tall, gilded mirror. In the center of the chamber, layered silk curtains spill down from the ceiling, just opaque enough to shield the contents of the small circle they enclose. You infer, geniously, that Dirk’s bed might be in the aforementioned silvery curtain cocoon—and your suspicions are shortly confirmed when he pulls the curtains aside and sits on said bed.

His skin is quite literally as white as his sheets. The bed, the curtains, and the man all could have been made from the same material and you wouldn’t be a slight bit surprised. You take your queue and sit next to him, consciously straightening your vest.

“So am I just going to stay over for a night, then? Hang around until morning?” You ask, leaning back on your hands.

You can practically see Dirk calculating his answer to that behind his eyes. He would probably be more successful at being aloof and mysterious if his peepers didn’t give his inner workings away. If only he had some way to cover them. Maybe a pair of… tinted glasses? “You can stay as long as you want,” he says. “A visit has no time limit.”

A laugh bubbles up from your chest out of your mouth. “Ah, except for that it must eventually end.”

Dirk does that little shrug of his that makes his dress’s wide neckline slip down one shoulder. Absolutely maddening. He is definitely trying to tempt you. “If you think there is no such thing as a permanent visit, we could call this by some other name.”

You busy your eyes examining the curtains. “If you think you’d really like to invite me to stay here on a permanent basis, you could make it easier on a simple lad such as myself by saying it outright.”

That elicits a smile from him. Not what you were going for, but you’ll take it. “You think I’m being forward. I understand that. But I can see the future, you know.”

Turning back to him, you arch an eyebrow. “So you know exactly how this is going to happen? You’ve seen me living here on this very island clear as day in your mystic pools?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have any mystic pools. Sight is not my primary prophetic sense. But the stars have never given me a person I’m supposed to be connected to before. Not like this.”

“Connected to” is a good phrase for what he’s decided he is to you. And “given” is an interesting word choice. You fidget with your thumbs. The idea of _living_ here, as an actual home, makes your head spin on its axis—do people come here to pick up the sacred lavender? What would they do if they found you here? Where will people back home think you’ve gone?

Back home is really only a short row away, but it feels like an entire ocean to you.

Dirk takes one of your hands, bringing you out of your thoughts. “There’s no need to worry about that right now. Consider this a free sample. Just stay for a little while, and then you can concern your wearisome head with decision-making.”

He’s very hard to argue with when he’s got you sitting in his bedchambers like this. You offer up a lopsided smile, and say, “A free sample. I like the sound of that.”

“Brilliant. Now maybe you should unpack.” Your midnight companion nods his head encouragingly at you and stands, stepping outside the curtains that envelop the bed and pulling them open so you can keep your eyes on him.

You stare, bewildered for a moment, before you remember the bag slung over your shoulder. Fancy that, you nearly forgot you had brought it. Pulling the thing down into your lap, you tug open the drawstring top and steal a glance at Dirk.

Dirk has walked to the other side of the room and opened the large, ornate wardrobe. He’s carding through a myriad of hanging robes when he cranes his head around and catches you watching. He quirks his lips.

“It’s the middle of the night, Jake. Don’t tell me you mean to sleep in that?”

You feel your face heat up and nearly choke on your words before deciding to keep your traitorous mouth shut. Instead, you silently hold up a cream colored tunic from your bag as explanation. You did, in fact, bring a change of clothes with you—though your reason for packing them was mostly for use as a safeguard in case your boat capsized and you wound up drenched, not as pajamas. Dirk accepts that as an answer and turns back around.

“Where am I to sleep?” You blurt out before you can think of better phrasing.

Dirk turns back again and you feel silly for calling his attention yet another time, even though he always gives it to you like a present wrapped with a bow. “The bed is very large.” He tells you, his tone even.

You gulp. What would be the masculine noun equivalent of a temptress? A tempter?

The sheet-white oracle pries his gaze from you and lifts an equally sheet-white nightgown out of the wardrobe. You don’t know a whole lot about sewing, but you’re sure folds in clothes are not supposed to fall so perfectly. Your hands get with the program before your head, willfully unbuttoning the collar of your vest. Unfortunately for you, they are quickly put out of commission again when virtually all the living essence in your body rushes like a bolt of lightning into your eyes.

You don’t dare blink. In one fluid motion, with his back turned to you, Dirk pulls his peach-colored dress off of one shoulder and lets it fall unceremoniously to his feet.

You’re young. You have so much going for you in life. You really, really don’t want to die of heart failure right here and now. Your pulse pounds in your ears, a result of the impressive shade of red your face must be turning.

Breathing. You should be breathing. You suck in a rushed breath of air, gaze still riveted.

He’s bloody _perfect_. You feel like you’re staring at a marble statue with the way his figure is sculpted. Not a single mark or freckle or scar mars his unreasonably pale skin. You… need to stop looking at his ass. Damn demigods and their lack of undergarments.

It takes every ounce of your restraint not to bolt up and place one hand on his back, another on his shoulder.

And then he pulls his nightgown over his head and down his body. It falls like curtains drawn over a masterpiece. You briefly mourn the loss of your view and remind yourself to breathe again.

Dirk adjusts his neckline and turns around to face you. The look on your face must be a fucking sight, because he lets out an impressive laugh and covers his mouth with one hand. Good _gods_ , Jake Harley, what have you gotten yourself into.

“Sorry, were you looking at something?” He leers, looking thoroughly unembarrassed. More smug than anything else.

“You did that on purpose.” You mouth, tone falling short of accusatory due to an embarrassing voice crack.

Dirk does that blasted fucking shrug, that _always_ gets you, and waves at you vaguely with his hand, leaning against the wardrobe door to shut it. “Go on then, you said you weren’t sleeping in that.”

You gulp. Dirk just watches as you pull your tunic over your head and fold it half assedly on the edge of the bed. You raise your eyebrows, and he nods in approval. Your finger fumble as you unlace your boots and set them aside.

Dirk looks at you expectantly. What else does he expect you to take off? You apparently sit considering that for too long, so he takes matters into his own hands, closing the gap between you and hooking his fingers under your waistline. You’re close enough to hear him breathe, though you hardly hear a sound.

“May I?” He entreats, words carried on delicate, cold air.

Certain parts of you have already decided your answer. “Certainly.” You tell him in earnest. You feel like the reverse effect of a critter being drawn towards a fire—like you’re a flame chasing a flighty moth around a campfire.

Dirk slides your pants down your legs, which gather around your bare feet, and then pushes you down seated on the bed. You half expect him to just go ahead and straddle you, but he settles to your left and brings a hand up to cup your cheek.

You wince at the chill. He almost draws it away, but you catch it with yours and hold it in place. He looks at you and you nod, a simple confirmation.

He catches your lips after a half second of staring. Alright. This is actually happening. Better make the most of it while you’ve got him here. You curl one arm around his waist and draw him in closer, kissing him with admittedly practiced ease. You’ve had flings before. You know how to dance the mouth tango, as the kids call it.

You can’t ascertain Dirk’s experience level with this sort of thing, as he’s lacking most of the clues you usually go off of. Such as the strength of one’s blush, or the speed of one’s breath. Seems the oracle has a built in poker face. Or poker… everything?

Regardless, he’s relaxed against you. His lips taste like ice and, of course, lavender. They feel less cold with each passing second. One of his hands finds your back, tactile and searching in the way he spreads his fingers. The other leaves your cheek and threads into your hair.

You break to suck in a long breath after a silence-stretched eternity of kissing. This is evidently not a mutual decision, as Dirk sticks his lip out in a pout and tries to pull you back. You elect instead to press your nose down to his neck and pepper hot marks into his skin. This really _gets_ him, for some reason. He shifts his hips right into yours, tilting his head up to give you room and making some kind of high noise in the back of his throat.

Score. Good guess. You engage your teeth and worry at a spot on his neck—lightly, still, because you don’t want to hurt him, fragile as he looks. He makes a valiant effort to eliminate every physical inch of space between you. You can’t see his face, but you’ve always had an active imagination and he’s the epitome of picturesque. His skin is still cold, but it’s pliant and smooth under your mouth. Your breath fogs up your spectacles, and you take that as an excuse to toss them down on top of your discarded pants, along with your cotton boxers a second later.

You go on like this for a good while, covering his neck in marks and occasionally letting him bring your lips up to his. Eventually you find yourself laying on top of him. There’s a heat between you, built up mostly by your own body and by the warmth of friction. Your elbows rest heavy on his sheets, which blend in with the marble-white of his nightgown. You haven’t gotten around to removing it, since it's loose and sheer and more than allowing when you want to pull it off his shoulders or slip your hands under it.

Sitting up, you go to grab the waistline and lift it over his head. Dirk catches your hand. You snap your head up to meet his eyes.

“Let’s not be hasty,” he says. You notice his usual lilt is gone, giving way to a deeper and far more attractive intonation. Oh, you much prefer his voice raw like this.

Accusations, accusations. You look at him incredulously. “I’m hardly being hasty. And, besides- you’re practically the _king_ of hasty!”

He guides your chin back up and kisses you quick and sweet. “I’m no king.” You feel a desperate heat rising in your chest. “Can’t we just do this for a while?”

“Dirk, your honor, your highness, your magical-ness, you have me disrobed, de-spectacled, and hot as Hephaestus in your bedchambers, and you expect me to exercise patience?”

Dirk laughs in the lowest register you’ve heard him use yet. You seriously wonder whether he invited you here only to fuck with you. And by fuck with you, you mean fuck you. Or have you fuck him, honestly, with the way things seem to be going. Does he invite other young men here to get it on with? Was that whole spiel about being “connected” something he’ll spout off to anyone? You squash that depressing thought by instead focusing on his blinding attractiveness.

And speaking of blinding attractiveness, he gives you a devilish smile that nearly melts your heart. “Alright,” he tells you, “I won’t torture you, much as I enjoy it.” And with that, he moves your hands away and lifts his nightgown off himself, tossing it over the side of the bed.

A very beautiful, very pale, very magical man is naked and beneath you.

You gulp. “Do you do this often?”

The question sounds ruder than you intended when it slips out, but you hardly notice, entranced by the oracle’s expanse of marble skin.

Dirk’s eyes widen in surprise. “Do I seem like I do?”

You sputter, prying your gaze up to meet his. “I only meant—”

“No, I don’t.” He stops you from dropping another landslide of a sentence. “I never have. Have you?”

For some reason, that reassures you beyond explanation. The idea of him letting just anyone see him like this seems sacrilegious. Then again, literally everything you’re doing right now is sacrilegious. But you feel as if the fates have given you special permission. You laugh and lean down to kiss the sharp line of his jaw.

“Have you?” Dirk repeats, shifting his arm to steady your waist.

“Not with the likes of you.” You muse, occupied with tasting his skin. He relaxes a little at that answer. You suppose you’re feeding his ego, but he deserves all the praise you can give him. “Must be lonely here with nobody to appreciate all this.” You drag one hand down his chest, taking in the foreign yet familiar texture of his skin.

Dirk’s head finds a pillow at the top of the bed and he leans into it, closing his eyes and humming. “Not anymore.” He replies. Gods above, he is a pretty thing.

“Right you are.” You tell him. Silently, you vow to never leave this man without attention ever again. You kiss his collarbone and down his chest, and then come up with a predictable bright idea and hope he won’t mind if you just keep heading lower. He grips the sheets with one hand and rewards you with more small noises the further down you get, so you figure you’re not doing too bad.

Now, without a shred of exaggeration, the oracle does not have a single hair on him except for on his head and his brows. Your hands slide down him like boats over an impossibly smooth moonlit sea, or slow-dripping water over cliffs of sleek granite. You hook them under Dirk’s thighs and situate yourself between his legs.

His dick is awfully cold. _Almost like an ice lolly_ , you think, rather deliriously. Something about him infects you with this magical sense of reverence, and you take him into your mouth carefully and slowly, your tongue slick and heavy. His voice spills out in dulcet tones, things like “Yes, Jake,” and “Please, Jake.”

You tighten your lips around him, slide him a little further down the back of your throat, and wrap your hand around what you can’t reach. You’ve had some practice at this, though not nearly as much as you’d like to have come prepared with. Luckily, you feel as if Dirk isn’t going to critique your technique too harshly. Even with his dick down your esophagus, he’s still so cold, and you can only imagine how goddamn red-hot you must feel to him.

“Oh, that’s amazing, you’re so _warm_ ,” Dirk intones with a voice that’s exactly like his moans; half language, half floating pitch. You steal a glance up at him and his hair is delightfully mussed up, his cheek turned to one side and his eyes squeezed shut. “That’s it, _fuck_ ,” his breath hitches as you pull off him an inch and sink back down. Your dick brushes the bed beneath you, and you nearly gasp at the contact—you’ll have to deal with that later.

Eyes shut again, you let his pleasured syllables dance around in your ears, and bob your head at a slowly increasing pace until Dirk grabs your hair with uncharacteristic force and cold fingers and comes there in your throat with a gasp and a noise like you just fucked his very soul. You swallow and pull your head and neck bodily off of him, spine arched and gaze fixed on his dilated pupils. He sighs, and his head lolls back.

What a sight. You feel as if you just sucked off a god. And maybe you did?

Sitting yourself back up involves groaning at the throbbing pressure in your neglected dick, and you pause up on your knees, and ask, “May I?”

Dirk hardly opens his eyes to look up and appraise you, and he nods with a hum.

“What about the sheets-”

“I’ve got lots of sheets. Go ahead, do it on me if it bothers you.” He mutters.

You nearly get a headrush at _that_ invitation and proceed to give yourself a few quick pumps and spill all over Dirk’s stomach and hips. You’re breathing heavy, and when you pry your eyes open the oracle is watching you with those gold-glass eyes of his. You feel some sort of metaphysical arrow pierce you right in the heart. Abraxas above, he makes you have emotions in all sorts of ways. And having emotions in all sorts of ways is not a usual part of your post-coital routine.

You pick one of his legs up and move it to your left, and flop down next to him on your back. “Sorry I got you all uh. Sticky.”

Dirk angles his shoulders in your direction, his head curling to press into your chest. “I asked you to.”

“Point taken. Want me to clean you up?” You move your left arm behind his head to play with his hair.

He hums into you. “No, I’ll do it tomorrow. Go to sleep now.”

You chuckle at the bluntness of his speech. Looks like you knocked the sacred oracle right out. Leaning in, you press a kiss to the top of his forehead. “Goodnight, you lovely thing.”

Dirk mumbles something in response and then you don’t hear anything else out of him, aside from his invisible-quiet breathing that you strain your ears finding. You press closer to him, attempting to feel his heartbeat, and you fall asleep trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Took us three chapters to get to the sex but I hope it was worth it. Much more sex to follow. Jake may or may not be in way over his head.  
> "Finally he experience the licky licky sucky sucky" - Skye  
> Bonus content for this chapter is just a lil doodle cause everything else I've made is a little spoilery:  
> http://kiyye.tumblr.com/post/176646166103/the-seer-watercolor-doodle-based-on-my-fic-the  
> Also they're a little old so I'm not sure if I'm going to upload them on tumblr but here are doodles of the boys! They're supposed to be vaguely from the scene where Jake first arrives on the island.  
> https://imgur.com/a/XMsAvS3
> 
> Also, title is from Violet by Bad Suns


	4. Fallen For a Guy, Fell Down From the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake enjoys his first morning on the lavender isle. Or does he??? 
> 
> (Yeah, yeah, he enjoys it a lot. )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter lil mini chapter before the next one, which is a Beefy Boy. Warning for sweet bath sex.

You wake up to the smell of smoke. Not a pleasant smell like candle smoke—its thick, hanging tangibly in the air, heavy with some notes of lavender and rose but mostly with ash. The first breath you take sends you bolting up in a fit of coughing and sputtering. The closed circle of curtains around Dirk’s bed is trapping heat, so intense you feel like you could be in a furnace. Your eyes sting to open, but you manage to squint at the sleeping figure next to you. The oracle is rolled onto his side, out cold. You shake his shoulder but get no response.

“Dirk? Bloody heavens, wake up, it’s like an oven in here.” You cough out, your throat dry and scratchy.

He shifts a little further from you, groaning in an I-don’t-want-to-get-up sort of way. You don’t know how he’s still asleep; the heat is practically unbearable.

Desperate to lower your body temperature, you stagger upright, grabbing onto the bed curtains for support. They barely hold your weight, but you don’t tear anything down. You shove through the silky layers to poke your head out—

And you are blasted with hot steam. All around you black clouds fill the gazebo, and you think you glimpse some deep purple hues hidden in the swirls of smoke before you are forced to close your eyes. They sting like all hell, and you fall back onto Dirk’s bed, crying out in surprise. You can’t speak for fear of asphyxiation. You can’t look around for fear of searing your eyeballs. Holding your breath and shutting your eyes is all you can think to do as you try to feel around the bed for Dirk.

All of a sudden, two searingly cold hands grab your shoulders and drag you up to sit. “Dirk?” The panic is more than apparent in your voice. “Dirk, I can’t see you. It’s broiling in here. Something is terribly wrong—”

A voice that is not at all the voice of your oracle rings in your ears, cutting through the smoke with the precision of an arrow and the grace of a shooting star. A woman’s voice, deep like the ocean and dark of tone. “You are seeing me right now, young Harley.”

Falsehood, spooky lady. All you see is blackness behind your eyelids. _Who are you and what have you done with Dirk_ , you want to ask, but you have no voice.

The woman’s voice chuckles like twinkling lights. “I haven’t done anything. The Prince is not mine to take. That is your job, thief.” She pauses and hums, low and expansive like a drum. “I have a message to deliver. Dirk will find it here in due time. I cannot guarantee you safe passage, but I can guarantee you a happy ending. Tribulation will be a necessary part of your journey. When he is searching for it, this will be the Oracle’s answer.”

Your head is swimming from shock. Probably from lack of oxygen, too. _What answer_ , you wish you could yell. _What is the answer!_

“The smoke." She responds, voice lilting almost in the same smooth way Dirk's does.

You have, to put it lightly, no idea what the fuck that means, and you are kind of freaking the fuck out. Your hair is slicked back against your forehead at this point, and you can only imagine Dirk’s bed under you is equally drenched in your sweat.

You hear a worried noise from the disembodied lady’s voice and feel a reassuring, marble-cool hand press into your cheek. All at once, the darkness from your vision seems to seep into your head, laying over your thoughts like a blanket of ice. Comforting.

“Let’s not have you wake in such a state, shall we?” The woman’s hum breaks into harmony and strikes a major chord, fading and sinking into you like the inky blackness did, and you don’t feel hot anymore. You feel calm. Relaxed, even. Vaguely, you are aware of Dirk’s hand touching you. That matters a whole lot to you right now. More than anything else, actually. Though you can’t particularly remember what you were just doing. Where were you, again? Talking to a woman?

The thought slides from your grasp like water, and you forget.

 

* * *

 

 

You open your eyes to a bright but muted light filtering through the sheer white curtains. You feel well rested. The silk fabric around you flutters lightly with a refreshing breeze, enclosing yourself, the plush, circular bed, and—

You turn your head to the side. No oracle.

You sit up and rub your face groggily, blinking sleep from your eyes. Surely the oracle would not leave you naked and lonesome and unattended the morning after. That doesn’t strike you as a very godly thing to do at all. Judging by the light outside, it’s still early morning, so he couldn’t have run off anywhere, right? You would hate to be stuck on Amaranthine with no demigod to—

A voice wafts through the curtains to your right. “Stop overthinking. I’m right here.” You hear the faint sound of footsteps and a moment later Dirk pokes his head between the hanging fabric. “Just getting dressed.”

You stare at him with a bewildered smile and vainly attempt to comb your hair back into place with your hands. “How did you do that? Can you read minds?”

Dirk gives you a conspicuous once-over, pausing to stare where the sheets are drawn up just covering your naked hips, and snorts in amusement. “Of course not. But I had a dream that you woke and assumed I’d stood you up.” He cracks a little smile. “That, and I saw you sit up behind the curtains.”

Huh. Funny. You feel like you had some sort of dream last night, too, but you can’t remember hide nor hair of it.

Right. So, he can’t read minds. You think you would just about keel over and die if he had been reading your mind this whole time. You make an effort to stand yourself up, off to the side of the bed, and smirk when you catch Dirk staring at your lower half. He leans in through the curtains a little more and you see he’s wearing a mid-length dressrobe of a matte lavender material, lower on one shoulder than the other, draping over his chest and gathering around his waist at the constriction of a white, silken belt. He has quite the fashion sense. “Mind if I borrow some pants?” You ask, flashing him a grin.

Dirk searches for words momentarily. “I’m not sure if I own any… pants.” You nearly bark with laughter before you realize he’s serious and raise your eyebrows in surprise. “But I’ll find you something, not to worry.” He adds, quickly, and disappears back into the room, the curtain falling gracefully back into place around the bed.

You take your time stretching and popping your shoulders, and then step out of the curtains to find the oracle rummaging through the bottom drawer of his enormous wardrobe. He pulls out what looks like… a dark, wine-red colored skirt? You look at him questioningly. “Didn’t manage to locate pants?”

He shakes his head, holding up the skirt. “No, these are pants.” He tosses the skirt—or, the pants, you guess—unceremoniously at your head. You catch them in a tight bundle. “You tie them at the ankle.” He sighs when you give him a look of complete and utter confusion. “Gods, haven’t you ever worn loose clothing?”

“No, unfortunately, my wardrobe is made up of solely skin-tight sexy rich people garments.” You inform him. He snickers.

“Put the pants on, Jake.”

You oblige and find to your fascination that the red garment _is_ , in fact, a pair of pants. Sort of like pirate pants. Or women’s pants, maybe. Either way, you’ve certainly never worn anything similar. You fiddle a little with getting the knot at the ankle in the right spot, and dirk walks over to help you, crouching down by your knee.

You let him fiddle with your ties. “Do you want me to borrow a shirt? Or I could wear mine from yesterday—”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to.” Dirk cuts you off, shooting you a pointed look with a mischievous smile and a raised eyebrow. Well then. That settles that. He finishes tying your ankle knot and stands, just as tall as you when neither of you are wearing shoes.

You lean in impulsively and peck him on the lips. “Got any plans for today?”

Dirk’s face splits into a lovely smile, his teeth blindingly white. He kisses your nose in return and hooks his arms around your waist. “First, I need a bath. Then, I have a call at noon. After that the day is yours to do whatever you please with me.”

Ohoho, you are a fan of that wording. “Shall I escort you to the bath, your highness?”

Dirk presses a kiss to your cheek and ruffles your hair despite your anticipatory noise of protest. “Don’t call me that.”

“On the contrary, my lavender prince, I couldn’t imagine calling you anything else.” You loop your arms around his neck and raise your eyebrows teasingly.

He just rolls his eyes at you, his gaze sliding to the floor. You think he would be blushing if he ever… did that. “You’re the prince here, mister wealthy mansion proprietor.”

You make a tsk noise at him. “I may be a fancy heir, but you’re the one who’s royalty, my lovely little lavender seer.”

Dirk blinks at you. “No, I don’t think either of those titles are correct.” And with that he pulls you by the hand out of his gazebo bedroom and down a side-path to the right, deep into the island’s flora.

You gaze around in wonder as Dirk drags you toward his much needed bath. All sorts of purplish and pinkish plants sway idly in the morning breeze. The island looks a little more innocent in the daylight, less steamy and mysterious but equally as beautiful. Stalks of lavender shoot up wherever the eye can see. Pale, silvery vines climb the broken down columns hidden in the middle of all the flowers, worn from centuries of rain and wind. The marble steps below you are somewhat calloused with cracks, but still smooth enough for you to walk barefoot.

The path you find yourself being led down is much narrower than the thick entrance path that cuts a line through the middle of the island. It’s also much windier than the main path, similar to the walkways you saw leading to Dirk’s workhouse and atheneum, but longer. Eventually, you reach an arched, rectangular building, the purple drapes hanging across each arch fluttering daintily in the wind. The stairs at the end of the path branch out into an elliptical marble platform, overlooking the sea to the north.

You pause for a moment to catch your breath. “I assume this is the bathhouse?”

Dirk smiles and seemingly produces a piece of twine out of thin air, tying his hair up in a little ponytail. “Correct. Observant of you.”

“It’s lovely.” You tell him, your eyes wandering between the dancing curtains, attempting to glimpse the inside of the structure.

Dirk nods. “Of all the architecture on this island, it’s really not too shabby.” He beckons you to follow him with a wave of his hand as he crosses the marble to one of the curtained arches, drawing the drapes to the side and stepping through.

You follow suit. The inside of the bathhouse is… exactly what you would expect the bathhouse of an ancient oracle to look like. Rather luxurious, if old fashioned. There is a large rectangular tub—more of a pool than a tub, really—cut into the floor, all the inside edges ledged in such a way that the stone forms a wraparound bench beneath the water. The marble around the tub indent is dyed a brilliant purple and carved in intricate flowering designs. You notice a cupboard and two cabinets at the far end of the room, and a couple baskets sitting on the ground by the left wall. After a moment of staring, you can not for the life of you figure out how the water is getting into the pool, but it has four faintly bubbling jets in its corners, disturbing the surface just enough to ripple it. There must be some kind of hidden magical filtration system you’re not picking up on.

You swivel your head to the left and nearly choke as Dirk stands with his back to you and lets his robe drop to his feet. Second time he’s gotten you with that move, the little trickster. He then folds the garment up neatly, places it on the ground next to the line of baskets, and walks to the other side of the room to open the cupboards. You drink in the sight of him and hope with all of your might he doesn’t want to sit and have a quaint bath with a friendly, erection-free island visitor, because that doesn’t seem like it’s in the cards for this morning.

Dirk pulls out some small jars of salts from the cabinets, along with a packet of dried plants. The fake-innocent look he shoots you as he sits on the edge of the bath tells you everything you need to know about his intentions.

“Aren’t you going to bathe with me?” He asks, blinking his butterscotch eyes at you.

You sit on the marble floor and start to undo your ankle ties. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, dear.” You say. He attempts to hide his smirk by busying himself opening the salts. You see exactly what he’s up to. “Just an innocent bath. Two friends, being pals, sitting in the oracle’s tub, separated by a good expanse of water because they are not interested in getting up to any lascivious activities, no siree.”

Dirk laughs and pinches some of the salts in his fingers, tossing them into the water. He then empties the bag of petals and leaves into the tub and slowly climbs in, resting his back on the stone bath wall and his head on the floor at the lip of the tub.

You quickly finish removing your pirate pants and swing your legs over the edge of the pool to join him, but— _jesus_ , you gasp and draw your legs back up, because, “Hey, Dirk, this isn’t even warm!”

The oracle just looks at you in bewilderment. For all his future seeing abilities and magical tricks, you’d think he would know how to heat up a bath, right?

“Oh, I hardly noticed.” He simply balances a finger on top of the surface of the water, barely touching it, and traces a symbol into the glittering ripples. The sigil glows momentarily, and you stick your foot cautiously into the water. Sure enough, it seems to be slowly heating.

You regretfully pull yourself all the way into the bath. Fortunately, it heats up to a regular steaming bath-y temperature in moments. Dirk smiles like he’s sharing some great secret with the world.

“What’s got you grinning like that, darling?” You ask, settling down on the bench next to him.

“It’s just so warm.” He sighs, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He rests his head back on the floor again and closes his eyes. Well, he’s seemingly enjoying himself. Hopefully he hasn’t forgotten about the semi he’s determined to give you, because that would be a real shame.

Hypocritically, though, _you_ find yourself momentarily forgetting about fucking the oracle—so uncharacteristic of you—because of a shiny, glinting something that catches your attention, leaning against one of the walls of the bath house, reflecting a bit of light filtering in from the billowing curtains. A sword. A silver-colored rapier, by the looks of it, with an ornate handle and a thin, sharp blade.

“What’s that?” You poke Dirk’s shoulder. Weapons have a tendency to pique your interest.

“Mhhh?” Dirk responds, not even opening his eyes.

You poke him again. “Dirk, do you have a sword?”

He pries his eyes open and turns his head to look at you, at the sword against the wall, and then back at you. “Yes, I do. What do you think I do all day on this island, lay around in my gardens?”

The thought of Dirk in one of his robes prancing around the island pretending to sword fight is _adorable_. You stifle a laugh and instead beam at him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You have so many hobbies.”

“All I have are my hobbies.” He responds, closing his eyes again. You then see his hands emerge from the water and do a grabby motion at you. “C’mere, get on top of me.”

You scoff. How forward of him. Nonetheless, you dutifully pick yourself up and slide through the water to straddle him. You’re already a little hard as you press your hips down into him and rest your elbows on the lip of the pool, boxing in his head. Dirk groans in a satisfied sort of way.

“Gods, you are pretty.” You tell him, peppering kisses down his ear.

He pushes his hips up into yours lazily and slides his hands up your back. “I know that. Call me something else.” He tells you, his voice rather flat.

Hmm. Let’s take that one off the compliment roster, then. “You’re a clever little thing. Maybe the cleverest man I’ve ever met.”

At that, he arches his back and tilts his head to one side, a moan escaping his lips. You let your hips collide with his again and you feel his cock now, hard against your thigh. You dip down and kiss him, hard and with no preamble, tugging at his top lip with your teeth and delighting at the sounds you pull out of him.

The bath around you smells fantastic. Dirk’s skin is so soft under your touch, and his hair is spilling out of his ponytail in thin strands, stark white against the purple of the dyed marble. _This is heaven_ , you think. _Nothing could be better than this_.

You realize a moment later you spoke much to soon as Dirk moves one of his hands down over his stomach to grasp your dick. Now, _this_ is heaven. You moan and thrust your hips further forward, still hunched over him, your top half half-dripping with residual bath water.

You feel confident that you can improve this positioning here. You grab Dirk with both hands by his ass, slide back into the water, and hoist him up, balanced just under you. He gasps and grabs onto the rim of the tub with one hand, the other continuing to stroke you.

Much better. Now, you reach a hand down to wrap around his dick. His voice jumps in pitch, struggling to buck his hips into you faster against the resistance of the water.

“ _Yes_ , Jake,” he gasps out, “You’re so lovely, oh, _yes_.”

You kiss him and let the water carry your hips in timed thrusts, riding out the pleasure you’re getting from his lips and his hand until you jerk and spill over into orgasm-land, moaning in a way that a guy can only get away with on a mostly uninhabited island. Dirk muffles his noises in your neck and comes right after you do, his body slowly uncurling and going all limp and relaxed. You had hardly even noticed how rigid he was before, but gods you like him better like this.

You press your nose into his hair and hold onto him, some part of you afraid that if you let go, he might sink right down into the tub and forget to breathe. Contented, you sigh. “Well. Now look what you made me do. We’ve jizzed up your pool.”

Dirk snickers and kisses down your collarbone. “Don’t be stupid. You think I would stand to bathe in my own filth like a mortal? Debris dissolves in this water. Everything, in fact, dissolves in this water, except for petals and people.”

You pull an inch away to look at him in wonder. “You’re a bloody genius.”

“Wasn’t my invention, but thank you. I think my experimentation methods have been groundbreaking here.” He threads a hand in your hair, sighing into your neck, and—

Suddenly he goes stiff. You mourn the loss of relaxed, just-fucked putty-boned Dirk, who is your favorite Dirk of all.

“I have a call in approximately three minutes.” He breathes.

A call? It takes you a second to remember that the man in your arms is the resident demigod of Derse, and that he is supposed to talk to important people and tell them important things for a living. You pout. “Does that mean you have to leave?”

Dirk does a surprisingly able job of prying you off of him and hauling himself out of the water. He undoes his ruined ponytail, smooths his hair back as much as he can, and quickly grabs a towel from the cabinets at the far wall, not even bothering to look all seductive as he usually does when he’s naked in front of you.

You met this man a mere matter of days ago and the fact that your brain has a category for “things Dirk usually does when he’s naked” should be concerning. But hey, that’s modern romance for you.

Your beloved demigod tosses his towel in a basket and swiftly replaces his lavender robe, tying the white belt in some kind of fancy knot and adjusting his collar. He turns to look at you glowering in the water and sighs. “My apologies. I do have a job, you know. I promise I will be back in at least a few hours.” He picks the towel back up to half-assedly dry his hair, then seemingly gives up and ties it all back into a small bun of sorts.

You do your best to look sad and kissable, drifting over to the edge of the pool. “Can I have a goodbye gift?”

That gets a little smile out of him, and he kneels next to the pool. “Only for you.” He tells you as he leans in and gives you a soft, sweet kiss. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.” He says pointedly, raising his eyebrows with a smile. He then stands and starts to walk out of the bathhouse.

“Wait!” You call out. “Where are you uh… going?”

He looks back at you like you just asked a very stupid question, and replies, “To bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the boys' morning routine! Plus a spooky dream on Jake's part. Ooooh, how plot-conscious of me. I'll get some doodles from this chapter up on tumblr soon! Thank you all for reading! <3  
> The next chapter is pretty long, but it's also finished except for final editing, so don't expect too long of a wait on that guy!  
>   
> Wanted to add here that tumblr user galacteddy (love of my life) has done some amazing drawings of lavender dirk [here](http://galacteddy.tumblr.com/post/176764574086/anyway-im-obsessed-with-kiyyes-oracle-dirk-more) and [here](http://galacteddy.tumblr.com/post/176475655101/im-terribly-weak-to-soft-dirks-and-the-ocean). Thank u teddy for my life i loVE YOU!!!!!!!  
> 
> 
> Also, chapter title this time around is from Sacrilege by Yeah Yeah Yeahs. As always, you can find it on the fic playlist :D


	5. The Monument of a Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake spends a day alone on the island. How will he entertain himself? Certainly he won't have any daring adventures or find any lost monuments, no? Whatever he gets up to, Dirk is bound to show back up and take care of him at some point, so he's really just got time to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for bearing with the longer wait on this one! It's a little exposition heavy, but I hope you enjoy the silly interactions between your favorite dumb gay horny boys. No sex in this chapter :0

Being left by your new divine fuckbuddy to wander his island home while he tries to convince a bunch of senators that he didn’t just have sex in a bath is an interesting predicament to find yourself in. You are rather lost when it comes to… what the hell you’re supposed to do here. Just, in general.

You should probably begin by getting out of the magic tub. It’s been a couple minutes since Dirk walked off, and you’ve just been… floating around, reluctant to leave the warmth of the water.

The towels are all the way over on the far wall of the room. You sigh, drifting across the pool so as to be as close to them as possible before you get out, and slowly remove yourself from the water. It’s a bright, sunny day, but the air feels cold in comparison to the steaming bat. Brrr.

You snatch a towel from the cabinets and dry off. Locating your discarded pirate pants from the morning is no challenge, since their stark red color stands out garishly against the white floor. Maybe that’s why dirk had them shoved deep in a drawer. Or maybe he just doesn’t wear pants very often. Most likely a combination of both reasons.

Your hair is still damp and, to your dismay, you have no handheld heat fan to dry it with. Yours back home was really nice.

… But hey. If your heat fan is the only thing you’re missing from your manor so far, maybe this whole “running away” thing was a good decision after all.

Again, you wonder what you’re possibly going to busy yourself doing while Dirk is gone. Did he seriously say he was going to be gone for hours? Even a single hour is a long time, and your attention span is slim. You don’t know if you’re going to survive multiple hours without him.

You figure it might be a worthwhile effort to explore the island. The more you think about this prospect, the more exciting it sounds. You’ve always dreamed of adventuring in new places and seeing exotic sights—finally you’re getting the chance, and on a sacred isle no less. Maybe you’ll find a secret shrine. Or an ancient crypt. Or a secret shrine in an ancient crypt!

Tying the ankles of your pants, you toss your towel in the same basket Dirk deposited his in. Before you go, you take a moment to admire Dirk’s sword. It’s a lovely weapon, ornate in all the right places but still optimized for combat. As far as you can tell, at least. You’re somewhat of a weapons enthusiast, but swords are not your expertise. You consider picking it up to feel out the balance of it, but decide not to tamper with what is obviously one of the oracle’s most prized possessions. He might make you row back home if you damaged it.

You begin to make your way back to the island’s center, taking stock of what areas you’ve already visited as you walk. Dirk has brought you up the central path into both of the island’s main gazebos, which seem to be the only gazebos around. You remember him pointing out his work house and his library, but those don’t seem worth exploring on your own. Dirk would likely give a better tour. You’ll ask him to show you around both of the alluring rectangular structures when he gets back from prophesying.

Around you, the flourishing lavender and other accompanying pinky-purple flora produce a soothing scent, almost straight out of a fancy perfume bottle, but much too natural and subtle to be commercial. You could get used to living here, what with how easy it is on the nose. And the eyes. Though… you realize with a start that you don’t know where Dirk keeps his food. That may prove to be a problem over the next few hours, since all the calories you definitely burned having bath sex may very well leave you plum fucking starving. But you’ll cross that bridge when you get there. Adventure now, basic necessities later. Plus, the smell of all this lavender is soothing your worries, just compounding your already impressive ability to ignore stressful things.

So far, the architecture of the temple seems to suggest a general symmetry of design. Rectangular workhouse to the left, rectangular atheneum to the right. Thus, you reason, there may very well be another path off to the right of Dirk’s bedroom gazebo, leading to some homologous structure in regards to the bathhouse. Another bathhouse, perhaps? Or a storage house? You don’t know, but you’re sure as sun going to find out.

You reach the two gazebos and pause to catch your breath, rather winded from the uphill trek. Sure enough, you see another path in front of you, which leads… South? You’re not the best at directions, but you think that’s right. It’s thin like the path to the bathhouse, and it winds down the hill it rests atop in such a way that you can’t make out where it leads. Very mysterious. You beam in anticipation. It’s adventuring time now.

You spin through one of the small gazebo's arches and continue toward the mysterious path. Trotting down the worn steps, your pace lively, you feel a breeze pick up around you and smell a slight tang of sea salt through the mask of all the lavender. Wherever you’re heading, it’s near the edge of the island, and it’s sure to have an unbeatable view of the ocean.

You come upon a large, oval-shaped marble platform, not unlike the one that the bathhouse is situated atop, but a good deal larger. When you realize what you’re looking at, you nearly whack yourself in the head for not remembering this place existed!

In front of you is Amaranthine’s famous statue garden.

Well, you always considered it famous. But now that you think about it, even before you came here you probably knew more about this little island than the average Dersian, seeing as you lived right across the bay from it and frequently saw shipments go in and out. Sailors tell lots of stories and stories often stick in the minds of impressionable young ones.

You were only a little tike when news about the big scandal was floating about. Perhaps you wouldn’t have heard about it had your grandmother not been the way she was, but you have always had curious ears, and as a child you had access to more than enough gossip to sate your appetite.

Back in the day, word around the Dersian coast was that a certain Senator Serket wanted to commission a statue of herself to situate in the Lavender Isle’s sacred garden. The fabled garden was said to be unrivaled in beauty or grace, and it was known to be home to various statues of Derse’s most influential and beloved leaders. The way you had read it in the history books, a Dersian monarch wouldn’t typically commission their own statue—their statue was to be created after they died, should the people of the country and the other royals see fit, as a sort of rite of passage securing their place in the grand lineage of the the kingdom's competent rulers.

But all of that changed after Derse’s second war with Prospit. More specifically termed, Derse’s war with the Church of Hope, as Prospit was not a recognized kingdom at the time, as it continues to not be today. If anything in this world has the power to stir up and reconfigure age-old traditions, political unrest most certainly does.

All of these convoluted happenings went on before you were born, so you grew up in the modern iteration of Derse; the Derse that is run by an elected Senate with no supreme leader. According to your grandmother, it was an unspoken agreement that by abolishing its tradition of following a monarch, Derse had simultaneously abolished its tradition of planting statues of its leaders amongst the sacred flowers of Amaranthine.

Apparently Senator Serket hadn’t gotten the memo. There was all kinds of fuss and backlash over her statue idea—for a number of valid reasons, might you add. Even as a child you felt a sense that the public opinion was in the right concerning this particular debate.

Taking a reverent step into the garden, you wrack your brains to remember how the whole debacle ended. Something about a legendary senate session where Senator Pyrope deflated the whole project using only her razor-sharp debating skills. Needless to say, you see no statue of Senator Serket in the garden.

But you do see a whole host of other ones. Big and small, sitting on decorative columns and standing proud, both clothed in fine dress and naked with dubiously perfect-looking genitals. Artistic liberties, you guess. Pockets of lavender stalks shoot up wherever you look, through overall the garden is more of an open floor plan deal, with a large center space devoid of plant life, host to four marble benches and a few of the most luxurious statues. Intricate carvings mark the marble below your feet in some language you don’t understand. There are two fountains you can see, beautiful and crystalline in the afternoon sun.

This place is certainly a sight. And, of course, everything smells fantastic.

Your excitement bubbles up in you like fizzing water and you wring your hands a little, positively elated at your discovery. You begin to stroll leisurely through the garden, reading the little placards in front of each statue you pass. Most names you at least recognize, but some you genuinely have never heard of.

You pause in front of a statue depicting Caliborn II, otherwise known as The Lord Conqueror. You recognize the deceased monarch immediately without even having to look at the placard. There’s a little bit of wear and tear on the thing, but he appears to be… standing triumphantly atop the carcass of a horse, holding aloft two halves of a broken farmer’s hoe. Yeesh. Looking at the statue puts a bad taste in your mouth. You frown, chewing on your bottom lip.

It doesn’t really sit well with you that Derse decided this old wretch was a worthy enough ruler to deserve a statue in the sacred garden, considering his chief accomplishment was initiating a hostile takeover of Prospit, your ancestral home country. Not that you have warm fuzzy feelings for Prospit either, but nearly everyone you’ve ever talked to has agreed that Caliborn was generally a huge douche. And historical context or not, a statue of a guy on a dead horse is definitely in bad taste.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts and continue to peruse the garden. Even though you woke up quite a time ago and had some exhilarating bathtime intercourse, you think you’re somehow still feeling a bit of that just-woken-up grogginess, so you mostly just sort of stare at the artwork in wonder, occasionally reading the placards but on the whole not bothering to use too much brain power. Someone told you once that the best way to look at art was with wide eyes, little thought, and much reverence. Or, no. Maybe someone told you that was the worst way to look at art? Chuckling to yourself, you remember a conversation you had in this vein with some rowdy partygoers at one of your Grandma’s galas. A drunk businessman with a waxy moustache and a myriad of multicolored ribbons of honor had told you, matter-of-factly, that the best way to look at art was not at all. The well-dressed painter across the table nearly punched him. Memories like these will float into your head sometimes, like little snippets of a play, and you marvel at how much you genuinely enjoy watching all the silly interactions people have together. If only you had any desire to take part in those interactions. Alas, your heart lies in this lonely island with your marble beauty and his divine words.

Once you’ve made your way around the outer wall, you wander into the center clearing, marveling at the two tall, gleaming fountains—seahorses with silver bridles, spurting water from their little seahorse snouts, nestled in matching scenes of carved corals. Dersians have always loved their aquatic decor. Before the country's recent expansion, it was once an entirely coastal nation. But the fountains are hardly the most interesting sculptures your roaming eyes land upon.

Four statues occupy the epicenter of the garden, back to back in a diamond shape. You move to look at the one closest to you, which faces the path back to the two gazebos. Disappointedly enough, it looks to be in quite the state of disrepair. You can’t make out any of its facial features. Its once regal pose has been reduced to one precarious half of a crumbling skirt to balance on. One of its fingers is missing, but the cut looks… too clean for simple erosion. Perhaps it was built like that? The barely legible placard reads “The Black Queen” in an antique, elegant script.

Ah. This must be the legendary first monarch of Derse, the fabled founder of the country and inspiration to all following Dersian queens. You remember some old fairy tale about a traitorous agent who cut off her finger to steal her royal ring, but was apprehended by a brave Prospitian parcel carrier before he could escape with his prize. According to the story, that day was the day Prospit and Derse, two neighboring countries with strictly opposing beliefs, opened up their first trade route. Shame how all that cooperation went to shit when The Lord Conqueror was crowned king.

The next statue is of King Strider I. It’s rather plain in composition, depicting an expressionless man in tight royal formalwear and an extravagant crown, standing at attention. You have a feeling the King wouldn't like it too much. You hear he had a flair for the dramatic. Strider was a popular and noble king in his youth, but he became bitter in his old age. On top of that, he was the man who raised The Lord Conqueror, so his reputation is rather tarnished—you’re not sure how you feel about him standing next to Derse’s first queen and founder, but at least it’s him and not Caliborn.

The third statue is in much better condition than the previous two. You think it might be your favorite yet. It depicts the late Queen Roxanne leaning elegantly on an armoire, an elbow balanced on her hip and a fancy glass in her hand. She smiles at you with an air of mischief, but her expression is warm. Loving, even. You can tell a lot of work was put into this thing. The artist must have known the queen well. She wears a simple circlet and a smooth evening gown, a scarf draping over her shoulders and trailing behind her. The texture on the fabric is stunning. Now _this_ is craftsmanship.

But as you approach the last statue in the diamond, you think you might have spoken too soon about what is or isn’t craftsmanship. This one is… so well carved it almost looks real. You’re still feeling a little tired from the trek over to the garden, so trying to wrap your head around what you’re looking at is proving to be a laborious task. Not a real person, Jake. Just a statue.

The figure is a young woman, not too much older than yourself, if you had to guess. She is kneeling with her arms outstretched but slightly bent, as if she’s hanging onto something invisible. Her stony countenance features a delicate nose, strong eyebrows, and thin, discerning eyes, but her expression is twisted into a picture of pure despair. A wave of sadness washes over you as you examine the detail on her face—there are shining, marbley tears running in rivulets down her cheeks, and you genuinely feel like she could come to life and start sobbing into your arms at any moment.

The more you look at this statue, the more it bewilders you. The pretty woman’s limbs are sort of gaunt, her eyes just noticeably sunken. This is not a carving of a proud ruler immortalized after death. It is some kind of monument to human suffering. You can not possibly imagine why an artist would depict any Dersian leader in this sort of light, much less why the country would allow such a creation to be sent to Amaranthine.

You crouch down to look for a name placard, but find nothing. The statue lady does look rather familiar, though. You suppose she bears somewhat of a resemblance to the statue of Queen Roxanne? Similar hair, similar jawlines, and similar eyes. But the two statues’ vibes are so different they might as well be entirely different art forms.

How very mysterious! You’ll have to ask Dirk all about this statue, and about the others, too, of course. You want to hear all about this place from him. He probably knows lore for days.

You make your way over to one of the garden’s benches and plop yourself down. How long until Dirk gets back? Can’t be more than another hour, right? You’re not really sure how long you spent wandering around the garden. You’ve only been here for about day, but you sense that time works sort of strangely on Amarthine, bending and stretching to fit the oracle’s needs. And mayhaps yours, now that you’re here.

Regardless of how long you’ve been exploring, you’re feeling awfully tired. Of course, along with all the walking you’ve done, you also haven’t eaten all day, so that factoid can’t be helping your case. The sweet scent of lavender from the garden washes over you like a balm. Surely it wouldn’t be a problem if you just… laid your head down for a minute?

All of a sudden overcome with a sense of sleepiness that’s been building since the moment you woke this morning, you curl up sideways on the bench and drift off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When you regain consciousness, it is to the light touch of a cold hand on your cheek.

“You are marvelous at wandering off, aren’t you.” You hear a silky voice tell you, close to your ear. Dirk’s voice.

You crack your eyes open and see your oracle, bending down so as to be level with your face. His silver hair is fully dried and fluffy as ever, and he wears a violet robe with a plunging neckline, draping luxuriously over his shoulders down to his elbows. The fabric is shiny and thin, dotted with little white constellation patterns. Pretty.

It takes a moment to reorient yourself and remember that you’re asleep on a stone bench. Ouch. That’s going to put a crick in your neck. Behind Dirk, you notice the sky has darkened to an evening mauve, tiny stars dotting the horizon. You groan. Deer sweet Abraxas, how long were you asleep?

“How was your call, dear?” You ask, rubbing your eyes. You’re still half asleep, but you at least manage to remember where Dirk was all day.

“Agreeable.” Dirk answers. “Senator Serket wished to know the chances of whether her armada would survive the trip back from Alternia’s coast.”

You blink, smiling up at him. “And what’d you tell her?”

“Not very likely.” He says simply. You smile wider as he lets out a little chuckle and leans down further, brushing some of your hair out of your eyes. “Feeling sleepy?”

You nod, attempting to right yourself. “Evidently so. Hardly even noticed I was tired ‘till I was fast asleep!” You tell him, grabbing onto his arm for support and dragging yourself up proper.

Dirk steadies you, two hands on your shoulders. He’s smiling at you fondly, which makes you blush in your still listless daze. “Yes, the lavender will do that to you.”

You cock your head at him. “Oh. Will it?” You ask, brilliantly. You need some kind of caffeine, and pronto—you feel like you’re thinking through a dense layer of mind-clogging honey.

Your oracle laughs and ruffles your hair affectionately. “Of course. Don’t you know the first thing about herbs? Lavender is a relaxant. It will put you right to sleep, especially a garden full of it. There are some potent varieties growing here.”

You… hadn’t even considered that all the dandy smelling plants might be making you want to pop a neverending nap, but now that you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. “Golly. How do you keep from getting tired?” You wonder out loud.

As if on cue, Dirk yawns, mumbling, “I don’t.” You furrow your brow and start to reply when he adds, “I can’t, really. But there are some temporary fixes.” You suppose you’ll have to pester him about that more later, when you’re awake enough to properly think up questions. He holds a hand out to you. “Do you want to visit the library? The scent isn’t as strong underground.”

You put your hand in his and heave yourself up, yawning back. Second yawn since waking up, not a bad start. “Sure, right-o, that sounds splendid.” You say, and feeling a familiar sense of lightheadedness upon standing, you remember to ask, “One other thing, dear, what are we to do for—dinner, I suppose? Seems I’ve skipped breakfast and slept through lunch.”

Dirk just sort of stares at you for a second, dumbstruck. Then, recognition dawns in his eyes. “Food. You’re talking about food?”

You laugh nervously. “Uhm, yes? What else would I be talking about, chum—”

“I completely forgot mortals eat food.” Dirk interrupts you, looking dreadfully guilty. “So much upkeep, what with the—” He waves his hands, “the food and the restrooms and such. How do you keep track of it all?”

You look at him like he’s crazy, because as far as you’re concerned right now, he definitely is. “You don’t _eat_???”

His pupils shrink, gaze darting around your face. “Of course not?” He stammers. “I don’t bother with aspects of mortal routine since I get along just fine without them. I’m not made of the same stuff as you, so I don’t need to—”

“Wait, but you take baths?” You ask, bewildered.

Dirk scowls at you. “Baths are not an aspect of mortal routine. Baths were invented by the gods. They are a necessary ritual purification of the physical vessel one inhabits.”

You snicker, shaking your head at this lunatic of a man that you have fallen for. “No need to get all preachy on me about your skincare routine!”

Dirk shoves you a little, but then grabs onto your shoulder, as if worried you might fall over. “What happens if mortals don’t eat? You don’t die right away, do you? I can figure something out. I don’t have any food here, unless you’d like to eat stalks of lavender, but I could—make an offering of some sort, I— you eat fish, right?”

You grin and put your hand on his reassuringly. “I’m fine, Dirk, stop fretting, I’m not going to keel over and pass away! I have been known to partake in the eating of fish, yes. But only as a ritual purification of the vessel I inhabit.”

“Shush.” He rolls his eyes. “Come with me to my workhouse. I’ll grab some materials for an offering, and then we can go down by the shore and catch you something to eat.”

Your stomach grumbles in anticipation. “Excellent idea.” You tell him earnestly, and you set off for the other side of the island.

The walk feels shorter with Dirk beside you, though making it up the steep, winding stairs leading out of the statuary is a challenge. You walk mostly in silence—you get caught up in your own head contemplating certain things, and you assume Dirk is doing much the same.

Chiefly, you think about the feasibility of living on this island. You had mentioned it before, and at the time you were intending to only be half serious when you suggested a permanent visit, but in all honestly… returning home is not something you have yet considered, much less planned for. Not that you usually plan things all the way through, anyway, but you digress. The fact that Amaranthine seems to have no stock of food or water—or bathrooms, for that matter—has put a canker in your plans. Sure, you could make amends to those problems, but something feels off about it to you. Is this really a place meant for mortals like you to live in? Is this really a place meant to function as a home?

You sneak a glance over at Dirk. It’s functioning just fine as his home, isn’t it? Maybe there’s more to that answer than meets the eye. You’re not even sure if you’re going to be able to stand being trapped on this tiny island for a slightly extended period of time, so you can’t fathom how he’s put up with it his whole life. The divine sure are capable of some amazing things.

Dirk steals a glance at you while you’re still looking at him, and you both quickly look away. You get the sense that his thoughts are dancing in a similar step as yours, so to speak. You want more than anything to simply ask if he _wants_ you here, but you don’t think he would understand the question. “It doesn’t matter what I want, Jake, it matters what the Gods decide,” you can imagine him saying. Damn oracles and their strange notions about free will.

You get a chance to stop brooding when you finally reach the workhouse and Dirk beckons you inside the stone arches of the rectangular building. “I have to grab some components. I’ll only be a moment.” He tells you, looking you over as if to make certain you haven’t died yet.

“Nice slant rhyme.” You smile, leaning against an arch. “Surely you must have some sort of timber, right? Or anything I could light a fire with?”

Dirk shakes his head as he flutters around the workhouse, filling a wicker basket with supplies. “No, but I can take care of the fire. Do you know anything about fishing?”

You think for a second. “Not a whole lot, but I’ve talked to a good deal of fishermen in my day. I could figure it out. Do you have a line?”

Dirk pinches his fingers together and then draws them back out again, like he’s pulling at taffy. A little bit of lavender smoke wafts from his fingers as they move. You squint and can just barely see, to your delight, a clear, spider-silk thin string pulled taut between his hands. He hands one end to you. “Don’t lose it.”

“How did you do that?” You ask, taking the string and staring at it in wonder. You’ve never seen anything quite like it, and you’ve been watching men haul fishing equipment from boats your whole life.

Dirk gives you a cheeky wink. “Magic.” He slings his basket over his arm and takes a large marble bowl up into his hands, filled halfway with salt. “Pretty sure I got everything.”

“Not so fast, mister. Do you have any seasonings? I don’t want to eat charred fish with nothing on it.” When he gives you a confused look, you continue, “Salt isn’t a bad start, but pepper would be nice? Bergamont? Thyme?”

Dirk whisks two bottles of dried herbs from a nearby shelf. “No pepper. Makes me sneeze. But I’ve got the other two.”

You laugh at the thought of Dirk sneezing, covering your mouth to hide your amusement. “Let’s be off, then!”

The two of you make your way back up the path toward the island’s center, then turn and walk down the steps to the bathhouse. The hill here isn’t very steep, and there is a slanted path going down it, devoid of the flowers that populate every other square inch of the surrounding land, leading right to the beach. You have to walk through the bathhouse to get to said path, and on your way through you smile at Dirk’s sword still leaning against the wall. You’ll have to challenge him to a duel sometime, if you can find a sword of your own floating about. Or maybe you could just get him to fight you fist to fist, the old fashioned way? _Then again_ , you think, stealing a glance at Dirk, _his hands might up and shatter if he ever hit anything_. Maybe violence wouldn’t be the best way to bond with your lovely, fragile oracle.

Once you’re down the hill, Dirk starts unpacking all his materials on the sand. He places the marble bowl in a little divot he pokes out with his foot, and empties some rose petals from a pouch into it, atop the layer of salt. You’re watching with rapt attention, so rapt that you almost don’t notice when he grabs a little jug with his other hand and holds it out, waving it at you. “To drink from. Mortals need water, right?”

“Indeed we do.” You take the jug and swish it around in your hand. Empty. “Know where I could find some?”

Busy with his offering or whatever, Dirk simply points to the ocean. He… can’t be serious.

“Love, I can’t drink ocean water, it’s—”

“Just trust me, you’ll be fine.” He wiggles his hand at you, shooing you off.

You sigh. You suppose you’re going to have to explain to him later why you can’t drink salt water, but for now you’ll fill the jug to humor him. You tiptoe barefoot through the sand over to the shore, enjoying the feeling of the beach beneath your feet. Now _this_ is homey. It takes a little bit of wading and a couple swipes to get water in the jug, but you manage.

Surely Dirk couldn’t be so ignorant to think that you could drink seawater. Perhaps he has some sort of… magic in store? Curiously, you bring the rim of the jug up to your lips, just to check, and… It’s not salty. It tastes like perfectly fresh water.

Why are you surprised? Of course the oracle has a nifty little enchanted trinket like this. Must be important for cleansing rituals and such. You down the whole thing in two gulps and fill it at least three more times, because good _gods_ , you did not even realize how parched you were until now.

When you turn back around, Dirk is muttering something over an elaborate display of candles set up around his bowl. Somehow, they’re all lit. You watch in amazement as a brilliant purple flame ignites over the bowl, licking up greedily toward Dirk’s face. He stares into the fire for a moment and then—

He _sticks his bloody hand in_ , right into the fire, and pulls something out. You yelp in surprise. “Jumping juniper, Dirk, are you alright?”

He stands, polishing something with spare fabric from his dress. “Hm? Of course.” He holds the now polished thingy out to you—a tiny golden uh. Shell? You’re not sure exactly what it is. It’s shaped sort of like a miniature bowtie, or maybe like a piece of pasta, and it shimmers like it’s made of metal. “Here, tie the line around this.”

Oh, the line. It was awfully thin and… basically invisible, so you seem to have—

Dirk just sighs and pinches his fingers together, pulling a new one from the air for you. This time, he fashions it so it’s more opaque at your end, but clear at the other tip. “You can’t keep track of anything, can you.” He chides, and ties the clear end around the gold bowtie thing himself.

Wait, wait, hold on. “Do you expect me to catch a fish with some string and a shiny piece of pasta?”

“It’s not a piece of pasta, it’s an artifact from Cetus. And yes, yes I do. I trust you have the arm strength for it.” He raises his eyebrows at you sassily. “I’m going to finish setting up.”

Well then. You guess you’d better get fishing.

You find a thin little piece of driftwood to tie your end of the line to, as a sort of makeshift rod. You’re pretty sure fishing rods are supposed to have a bobber or something, but it looks like this is the setup you’re going to be working with. You settle cross legged on a rock that juts out into the sea and cast your line out.

It’s only about thirty seconds before you get a bite. “Goodness gracious!” You yelp, half to yourself, yanking the plunging line back. An _enormous_ fucking flounder comes flying at you, somehow hooked to the magic pasta. It twitches a little, lying on the rock. You stare in disbelief.

Magic… does not make any sense to you. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers. You grab the fish with two hands and walk back over to Dirk with it. He grimaces slightly.

“Tell whatever god you begged for this beauty that I offer a hearty thank you.” You tell him, holding the flounder up and grinning.

“You can thank Cetus by removing her artifact from that fish’s mouth and tossing it back into the sea.” He replies, casual as fuck about the god he’s twice now dropped the name of.

You sit down beside him, carefully prying the magic pasta from the fish’s mouth. You then unceremoniously lob it into the ocean. “Hope you brought a knife?”

If Dirk could physically get any more pale, you think he would have at that question. He does, however, hand you a small, ornate silver knife. “I’m not going to watch.” He says, quietly, and he turns his back to the fire, folding his hands in his lap.

You have never filleted a fish before but you’re sure as hell going to give it your best shot. You would do just about anything for food at this point. You try to make conversation while you work, to spare Dirk the gross fish-gutting sounds he probably wants to avoid. “Squeamish, are you?”

“Sometimes. I don’t mind violence, but dead things freak me out. Though—occasionally it’s the other way around. It’s sort of a case by case basis.” He shifts a little, his back still turned to you. “I’ve only seen blood twice, but I didn’t mind both times. And I’ve seen the dead at funerals and been alright. Dead fish and birds, though,” He shivers slightly, “That I can’t do.”

Huh. He sure is a strange man, your oracle. “Does it bother you when _you_ get hurt? I’d think if I were you, I’d be awful cautious with that pointy sword you have. And this knife, for that matter.” You gesticulate with the knife before remembering that Dirk’s not looking.

“Me?” He asks, as if the question were absurd. “I’ve never gotten hurt. I don’t think I bleed.”

You pause momentarily in your fish-preparing to think about that. It… should not come as a shock that Dirk doesn’t get injured the same way mortals do. It’s not like you’ve been blind to all the strange things about his physiology, like his icy skin and his yellow eyes. The guy doesn’t eat, for gods’ sakes. But you’re still a little weirded out.

This discussion is probably not helping him take his mind off the fish you’re gutting. You resolve to change the subject.

“Do you go to the statue garden often? I thought it was lovely, even though I conked out after my little jaunt around the place.” You say, looking up from your work.

He visibly winces. Oh jeez. Bad topic, huh.

“No. I don’t like to go there. It makes me feel strange.” He says, rubbing an arm with his hand.

“Oh.” You say dumbly. There is a momentary awkward silence. “I suppose some of the statues were a bit, uh, unsettling. Like that one of Caliborn the second, boy, what a creation.”

Dirk nods. “I don’t like the dead horse in that one.” You nod back in agreement, but again, he’s still not looking. “Most of the statues are fine, but the one of Princesse Rose always makes me feel kind of... sad. And nauseous.”

… The late Princesse Rose? You try to recall whether you saw a statue of her back in the garden. “Oh, is that the one of the young lady crying? I didn’t see a placard.”

“Yes, that’s the one.” Dirk sighs. “There is no placard. I’ve been meaning to make one, I just… feel weird going near that place. I always get this weird, preternatural sense that something very unfortunate happened there.”

You shrug. “Well, there are plenty of rooms in my mansion that I used to not like going into, so that’s perfectly understandable.” You’re not lying—there were a good deal of spooky rooms in your manor.

Dirk seems grateful for the change of subject. “How long ago did your family come to possess that mansion? It’s lovely.”

“Oh, ages and ages ago. My grandmother’s mother’s grandmother bought it with her young fiancée, I believe.” You say. “My ancestors were some of the first Prospitians to migrate to Derse after uhm—after the Great Magic Purge, and all that. Dunno how well versed you are in Prospitian history.”

“I’m well versed in Dersian history, which includes Prospitian history.” Dirk says.

Ah. “Right. Well, historically, my family members have always been followers of Abraxas. It wasn’t safe to stay in Prospit with the Church of Hope going bezerk with all the executions, so my great great great gran packed up shop and moved to the Dersian coast. Fortunately for her, there was a certain audacious green manor for sale, and her celebrity Prospitian husband had enough dough for a down payment on the place.” As you talk, you finish preparing the fish and eye it skeptically. “How am I supposed to cook this delicious sucker?”

Dirk waves a hand off to his side. “Just toss it in the fire. I promise it won’t burn.”

“Because of magic?” You ask, teasing.

“Sure, divine magic.” He replies, a smile creeping into his voice.

“Whatever you say, your magical-ness. I hope this works.” You mutter, laying the fish in the purple flames. It sizzles a little, but it doesn’t catch. Hm. Promising. “You can turn around now.”

Dirk swivels around and draws his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. “Is eating enjoyable?”

You laugh at the strange question. “Yes? Yes, silly. That’s why gluttony is a sin. It’s great fun.”

He nods a little, staring at the cooking fish. “I think it’s strange.”

“Well, maybe you should try it sometime.” You waggle the knife at him, beaming and raising your eyebrows.

He giggles, and you relish in the sound, because gods above he is beautiful when he does that. “Maybe someday.”

You resign yourself to fiddling with the bloodied knife while waiting for the fish to cook. “So, how long did you say you’ve been on this island?” You ask, deciding to dive right into some of your most pertinent inquiries.

“As long as I can remember.” Dirk states, his eyes following the licking of the lavender flames. His face looks even more purpley in the firelight, practically alien.

“But how long would you estimate?” You push.

Dirk rolls his eyes. “You want to know how old I am, is that it?” You nod sheepishly. “Not quite fifty. Forty-something would be my closest estimate.”

You choke on your spit a little. That’s not the answer you were expecting. You were hoping either... late twenties or late two hundreds? Not anywhere between.

“My first memories of being here, I think I was around thirteen. Or sixteen. I was a kid, I know that much. Two fishermen found me here when I was just a teenager, and shortly afterwards I began my partnership with the Senators. It’s been exactly thirty-four years since then, so I’m anywhere from forty-seven to fifty, depending on how many years I spent here alone before I was found.”

You’re sure you remember things from before your teenage years, so it strikes you as strange that Dirk doesn’t. You watch the fish slowly cook in the lavender flame, swallowing. Your mouth is watering just looking at it. “So you don’t know how you got here in the first place, then?” You ask, only half focused on your discussion. You’re a little too busy drooling over your soon-to-be dinner to think about literally anything else. Hierarchy of needs and all that.

Dirk stiffens and looks away from the fire, his skin almost giving off a milky glow in the twilight. He shakes his head. “I know a plethora of things, but I don’t know that.”

He sounds sort of bitter as he says it, almost sarcastic. You suppose you might be annoyed, too, if you were a seer with fancy prophecy powers but the gods refused to tell you your origin story. “How does that work anyway?” You mumble, staring at the gleaming fish.

“How does what work?”

You look up, meeting his eyes. “The uh,” you stumble over your words, “the knowing things. You. Knowing things. Do you just get portentous dreams or what?”

Dirk shrugs. As per usual, the neckline of his dress droops, exposing more of his collar. Awfully distracting in the glow of the fire, and you’re sure he knows it. “I can commune with the gods in many ways. I do frequently have dreams and visions, but waiting around for those while I’m answering Senator’s queries would be highly inconvenient.” He brushes some of his silken hair behind his ears. “I can ask questions of the stars directly. You’ve seen me do it.”

You think back to your second meeting with him. He didn’t have to think very long when searching for an answer to your question. Seems like the stars have a pretty quick response time. “So have you asked them about this?”

Dirk blinks at you. “... Yes.” He replies, slowly, as if unsure what answer you’re looking for. “Yes, I’ve asked them about you.”

“And what did they say about me, hmm? Anything flattering?” You waggle your eyebrows.

Dirk looks out over the ocean, contemplative. “The gods think that I need you. And that you need me, too.” He taps his slender fingers on his knee, so close to the fire you’d think the heat would make him uncomfortable. “They wouldn’t let me do a damn thing without you here.”

You open your mouth in surprise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You swear you could see a little flush on Dirk’s cheeks, but you might have imagined it. “Just that—for the longest time, whenever I asked them questions I really wanted answers to, they wouldn’t give me anything.” He frowns at the memory. “‘Wait for the thief to find you,’ this, ‘wait for your missing page’ that. Now that you’re here…” He pauses for a moment to remove a fleck of sand from his dress, “I can make forward progress.”

Huh. It seems strange to you that the gods would be cryptic even to their prized oracle, but hey. Those are the gods for you. You smile at Dirk, attempting to cheer him back up. “Well, I’m happy to be of service to you.”

He turns the corner of his lips up at you, his eyes softening. “I know you are.”

You flick your glance over to the fish again, not trying to be all that covert about how eager you are to eat. Suddenly you remember your lack of anything resembling uh, tongs. How are you going to get this fish out of the fire? Dirk must notice your concerned expression, because he cocks his head at you.

“How are we going to… get dinner served?” You ask. The oracle looks no less confused. “Get the fish out of the fire, Dirk, how are we going to get the fish out of the fire? And how am I going to eat it, all I have is this measly knife, there aren’t even any plates—”

Dirk cuts you off laughing. “Oh, stop your worrying.” He reaches behind him and—oh, he brought one. A plate, you mean. How thoughtful of him.

“Wait, where did you get a plate, you don’t even eat—Aaah!” You yelp in surprise as Dirk sticks his fucking hand into the fire, making a comedically disgusted face as he grabs the cooked fish, and drops it on the plate.

“Eugh. Slimy.” He shoves the plate at you.

You stare at him in disbelief. The oracle, bless his godly heart, is not afraid to stick his hand into fire, but squeamish about cooked meat. “You’re a riot, an absolute riot. Can I ruin these pants?”

Dirk winks at you suggestively. “Any time.”

You pick up the knife you used to gut the fish earlier, wipe it viciously on your pant leg to get the gunk off, and slice into your delectable dinner. Honestly, considering you haven’t eaten in upwards of twenty-four hours, this is more than you could ask for. You proceed to just kind of… cut it into pieces and stab them with the end of the knife to bring them up greedily to your lips. Who needs a fork when you have a handy dandy all-in-one consumption tool? Useful but admittedly dangerous. Oh well. You would rather slice a finger than die of starvation.

Dirk watches you eat with apparent interest. You gesture at him with your knife, waving it around for a couple seconds to indicate that you’re going to start talking once you finish chewing. You swallow. “Don’t you ever meet Senators at dinner time?” You ask, brow furrowed.

“Once or twice I have, yes, but it’s not a frequent occurrence. They like to meet with me in secret libraries and formal council chambers and such. Not dining rooms.”

The fish is almost gone, but you hold up an especially thin piece pierced on your knife. “Fancy trying a bite?” You entreat, trying your hand at puppy dog eyes.

Dirk sighs. “No, thank you, you’re not going to get me to put that in my mouth, no matter how cute you act.” He shifts his gaze down to the sand. “Besides, I don’t know if I can.”

You shake your head. “You never cease to amaze me.”

The two of you sit in relative silence as you clean your plate and take a couple more swigs from Dirk’s magic water purifying jug. You then stand up, dusting your ruined pirate pants off. “I’m going to go piss into the ocean. I trust you can put out the fire?”

Dirk sticks his tongue out at you in mock revulsion. “Gross. Yes, of course I can.” Before you have time to walk off, he waves his hand over the bowl and the fire snuffs out, the lavender tendrils of smoke curling in the air reminding you fondly of the first time you met him.

You make your way down to the shore and take care of your business. Behind you, Dirk packs up his offering materials and his plate and his bowl of salt and his magical jug. Such an odd collection of items for an oracle who doesn’t eat or drink to have lying around. This island is chock full of mystery, and so is your divine lover.

You breathe deeply, relieved to smell the salt of the sea after so long encased in the island’s suffocating floral scents. Not that you don’t like the smell of flowers—truly, you think the gardens here are lovely—but the tangy, fishy smell of the sea does wonders to wake you up. Now that you’re on the beach, you can tell how the lavender had been clogging up your senses, like a sinus cold. You aren’t particularly looking forward to trekking back up the path to Dirk’s bedchambers just to fall asleep again, but you suppose some sacrifices have to be made in the name of adventure. And love, or fate, whatever you want to call it. You’re still working on a label for that.

Walking back to where Dirk stands with his arms full of magical junk, you kick a little sand as you step, smiling widely. “Got all your goodies there?”

The oracle bobs his head in affirmation. “Mhm, I’ve got everything I brought.”

“Want me to carry anything?” You ask, eyeing his precarious grip on the sharp knife.

He shakes his head at you, turning on his heel to start up the path. “No, I can hold it.”

You laugh a little, jogging to catch up with him. He casts you a wry smile, looking at you sidelong. You grin back at him. “It really is a lovely place you’ve got here. I could even get used to eating fish day in and day out.”

Dirk looks ahead of you and then down at his feet, seeming rather embarrassed. “You wouldn’t always have to eat fish.” He says, as if to reassure you.

You quirk an eyebrow. “Splendid use of the conditional.” When you get no immediate retort, you add, “It’s just, you’d think you would be saying things like “will” and “won’t” since you, uh, know the future and everything. Shouldn’t you already know whether I am to stay here or not?”

“You know that’s not how it works.” Dirk hugs his pile of belongings slightly tighter to his chest. “I don’t know every part of the future, and I don’t know all possible futures. Just what the gods deem necessary for me to know, and what they deem acceptable for me to tell the Senators.” He pauses, considering. “You’re supposed to be a thief. For all I know, you could make off with all the isle’s valuables tomorrow.”

You frown at him, a little hurt. You’re not sure if that was an attempt at humor, but you hope he knows you wouldn’t do that.

“I hope you know I wouldn’t do that.” You tell him, watching for a reaction. You rethink your tenses and add, “I won’t do that. Not without dragging you with me, anyway.”

A faint smile plays upon Dirk’s lips. “What are you going to do, run away with me?”

“Why not?” You answer, too quickly for comfort. You see Dirk’s gaze slide to meet yours with interest. “We could run away from here. I’m not saying we have to, I’m just saying it’s possible. Have you ever even been off the island?”

Dirk scoffs. “I have calls every day, Jake.”

“No, no,” you lean in, “I mean really off the island. With your real body. To someplace exciting! Visiting Senators in their stuffy houses isn’t all that adventurous or bold of you, no offense. You’re essentially a sitting duck here, Dirk.” It seems like you’ve got his attention, so your practiced charisma kicks in, eager to convince him of your point. “Haven’t you wanted to get away? Even just for a short spell? We could take a hike over to the opposite end of the shore, maybe catch a wagon and see a real city. Or someplace more remote, if you’re nervous around crowds.”

“I’m not nervous around crowds.” Dirk interjects.

“Right-o, then let me take you to a marketplace! Just for a day, Dirk, just one measly day. Twelve hours. My rowboat can fit the two of us, and we can come right back here to settle down after our outing.”

The oracle walks beside you in silence for a minute, turning the idea over in his head. “Okay.” He answers, plain and simple. “I’ll try it. You’d better impress me with this ‘outside world’ of yours.”

You beam in delight, clapping him on the back and offering a brief apology after you remember the stack of items in his arms. “Oh, brilliant! This is going to be brilliant. Just you wait, you’re going to love it out there. So much to do! So much to see! You know, once my gran took me to see a traveling zoo, far, far inland of my manor, you’d hardly even believe it—”

You continue to ramble about the limited sights you’ve seen throughout your years to try and spark some excitement in your companion. You’ve been stuck at home for a good deal of your life, no matter how much you’ve always dreamed of exploring the great blue yonder, but you have been on some fun trips with your grandmother. Plus, your mind in childhood distorted the colors and sights to such a degree that it all seems so much fantastical to you now than any of it could have been at the time, like magical lights overlaying the mundane. A traveling zoo with a tamed lion became to you a traveling zoo with ten wild lions, and so on and so forth. Good for storytelling, not for maintaining your perceptions of reality.

By the time you reach Dirk’s bedchambers, it looks like you’ve talked a little hype into him. He smiles as he cards through the many garments in his armoire, eventually selecting a periwinkle nightgown. You look away so quick you nearly hurt your neck, because you know _exactly_ what trick he is about to pull and you don’t know if you have another fuck in you today.

Alright, so maybe you have another fuck in you. But you still don’t want to give Dirk the satisfaction of seeing you ogle his ass for the hundredth time, predictable as you are.

You give him a moment and turn back. Sure enough, he’s dropped his previous dress to the floor and pulled the nightgown over his head. At least, you assume he pulled it over his head, judging by the way his hair is slightly mussed. He raises his eyebrows at you, the picture of innocence.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Have any other fake pants for me to wear?” Your current pants are, in fact, still sort of covered in fish blood. Somehow the lavender is completely masking the scent of it. You suppose sacred magical plants are probably more powerful than fish guts in the olfactory sense.

Dirk smiles mischievously at you. “No, but...” He dips his hands back into the armoire, rummaging around. He then pulls out a loose, peachy pink nightgown dress thingy, with long, flowing sleeves and a layered skirt. “I do have this.” He says, eyes twinkling.

You sigh, looking at him defeatedly. “Are you positively serious?” You ask, already knowing his answer.

“Always, dear.” He replies, grinning, and he steps forward, presenting the dress to you.

You bend down, untie the knots around your ankles, and shimmy your fishy pirate pants off. A short minute of struggling to get the thing over your head, and you are wearing Dirk’s silly pink dress.

He beams in delight, looking like he’s just seem some sort of cute dog wearing a little doggy outfit. “You’re lovely.”

You part the curtains behind you, plopping yourself down onto the bed. “Well, we’re about to sleep, and I am not wearing this all day tomorrow. So take it in while you can.”

Dirk wastes no time, climbing nimbly on top of you and pushing you down into the bed, his legs straddling you. “Oh, I will.”

You kiss him, amorous and comfortable, sliding your hands to feel the contours of him through his sheet-thin gown. The two of you go on like that for some time, lips locked and hands searching, secluded in the curtained hideaway of his bed.

You hardly even notice the subtle shifts in position, how he threads a hand in your hair and folds his arm over your chest, and sooner than you know it, sleep overtakes you both, lying entwined above the sheets in dresses of silk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This chapter was a delight to write, mostly all the parts where idiot Dirk forgot that normal people have to eat and drink to live. The title is from Various Storms and Saints by Florence + The Machine, which as always, can be found on my fic playlist. 
> 
> Here is a bonus content Dirk that I drew for this chapter: http://kiyye.tumblr.com/post/177672594408/two-versions-of-an-exclusive-lavender-boy-one
> 
> Also, it's already up on patreon, but now that this chapter is out I will be posting the little map I drew of Amaranthine very soon! So keep your eyes peeled for that over on my tumblr. I will probably edit a link into these notes once I post it <3


	6. You Tear It Down In Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's another day on the sacred isle, and the boys get productive and deductive. Jake learns to cut lavender, Dirk wears a cute new dress, and somebody discovers a shocking secret. Is Dirk really going to let Jake take him adventuring to the mainland? I don't know, you'll have to read the chapter to find out ;D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex in this chapter! It's a pretty long one and contains a lot of plot relevant information. It also contains some cool visuals (made by me). Threeish mentions of minor character death, one being Jake's grandma. Hope you enjoy!!!

This morning when you wake up, Dirk is cradled in your arms. His features are so delicate like this, cast in soft shadows by the faint early light. Your eyes trace the path of his lashes, long and white and dainty like halved snowflakes. His skin is unmarred, immaculate like blown glass. He barely breathes, and he doesn’t move an inch.

You brush some hair out of his eyes, smiling fondly. You could well and truly lie here with him forever. Part of the dress you are regrettably still wearing is caught under the two of you, pulling it in a weird direction, and your right arm is bound to be sore from its unnatural position under Dirk’s head all night, but you still wouldn’t change the scene before you for the world.

You are loathe to disturb your sleeping beauty, but as you groggily remember the events of the past day, you recall your thrilling plan.

“My angel, my darling,” you whisper, kissing his cheek, “rise and shine. There are adventures to be had.”

He stirs, turning his head into your arm and humming. You press a kiss to his temple. His eyes flutter open, squinting. “Too early for adventures.”

You laugh, shifting around so as to hold him better, freeing your smushed arm and tangling your legs with his. “Oh, but it’s never too early for adventures!”

He groans in response, pulling you closer, and you lay in comfortable silence for a while longer, his eyes closed. Eventually, he mutters something into your neck, so muffled it’s incomprehensible.

“What was that, my sleepy oracle?” You ask, gently.

Dirk lifts his face momentarily. “I said, I have some chores to do this morning. Can we do our adventuring in the evening?”

You shrug, kissing his icy, soft lips. “That’s perfectly peachy with me, partner.”

He snorts, cupping your cheeks and kissing you back. “How alliterative.”

“Why yes, I am literate, thank you very much,” you reply. Dirk giggles, giving you an exasperated look, and finally disentangles himself from you and the sheets, standing and stretching. “What sorts of chores do you do here?”

“All sorts,” he says over his shoulder, parting the curtains and stepping out. You remain in bed, still trying to dispel the smoky lavender fog from your noggin. As excited as you were a moment ago about your evening plans, getting up—or, quite frankly, doing anything other than lying around and kissing your demigod—seems extremely difficult right now. You hear Dirk continue behind the curtains: “I have a whole stack of books to re-shelve. Not to mention, I haven’t cut any lavender in days.”

You reluctantly sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The effort is monumental. “Does that mean we’re visiting your underground library?” You ask, cutting yourself off with a yawn.

“Yes indeed it does.” Dirk steps back through the canopy wearing a simple crown of lavender and... yet another fancy purple dress, but this time it’s only knee-length, the short skirt flaring out into thin pleats. White floral embroidery spreads down from the garment's cinched princess waist in a fan, all rosebuds and lilies and elegant vines. Oh, no. You are going to have to keep yourself from staring at his legs  _all day_.

“I like this outfit.” You enthuse, and you probably spend too long eyeing Dirk’s calves because he starts laughing at you.

“My eyes are up here, Harley.”

Finally looking up, you notice a dark greenish mass of fabric in your oracle’s hands.

“Thought you might want new pants.” He holds the fabric in your view. You assume it’s another pair of those ridiculous ankle-tie pantaloons from yesterday.

You raise an eyebrow suspiciously and hold out your arms to accept his gift. “Thank you, your grace, for letting me borrow from your luxurious wardrobe. Truly the epitome of fashion”

He sticks his tongue out at you. “You look lovely in my pink dress, but I will admit, I enjoyed your outfit yesterday more.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, my  _outfit_. Of course. More like my lack thereof, you little minx. But sure, let’s pretend you don’t just like seeing me shirtless.” Remembering the reason you donned this silly dress in the first place, you say, “speaking of, last night didn’t you say you were fresh out of pants?”

If Dirk’s face ever betrayed any color save for marbley white, you’re sure his cheeks would be flushing pink right now. “Well. You’re not wrong,” he replies, running a hand through his hair.

You laugh, pulling your nightgown up over your head. “You liar. Nevertheless, my bare chest you shall see. Who am I to deny a demigod his indulgences?”

Dirk shamelessly watches you pull on the new pair of pants, smirking a little. “How respectful of you.” He says, not even bothering to look away from your dick until you’ve got your waistband tugged all the way up. You pull your feet onto the bed, tie the green fabric off at your ankles, and then stand to face your oracle, sliding your hands easily around his waist.

“So, what chores are we to work on first?” You inquire, kissing his forehead. “I don’t suppose kissing in bed for a little while longer could be considered a chore, no?”

Dirk rolls his eyes, but he does place a hand on your chest over your heart. That would be a cute gesture if you weren’t absolutely positive he just wanted to feel up your pecs.

Oh, who are you kidding, he’s still adorable. “Lavender collecting first. It’s going to be warm around midday, and we’ll want to be in the library by then.”

Would you like me to help, or just stand around and look pretty for you?” You don’t bother asking how he can predict the weather. There are a lot of things he seems to just  _know_ , and a lot of other things he is oddly clueless about.

He plants a soft kiss on your cheek and pulls away, beckoning you to follow him out of the curtains. Strolling along behind him, you discover that these new pants you’ve commandeered have pockets, deep enough to shove your fists down in them. You are delighted by this turn of events.

You stare at Dirk as he moves. He walks with a featherlight step, graceful to a point where if you froze him at any given moment, no matter how random, he would still look sublime. You walk like a boy who’s spent most of his days strolling through carpeted manors, a charming, childlike bounce in your step and a beguiling smile on your face. The two of you make quite the pair of seductors.

Dirk leads you out of the gazebo and down the central walkway, passing the trail to the bathhouse and taking a right. You quickly come upon his workhouse, a clunky yet elegant building. It’s taller and sturdier than the bathhouse, with only one wall comprised of open columns as compared to the usual three or four.

He glances sidelong at you, smiling, and brushes some hair out of his face. You wonder what kind of romantic thoughts he’s thinking. He’s awfully cute when he’s being sentimental.

“I’m going to grab the harvesting knives, and then I’ll teach you how to cut the stalks, alright?” He tells you over his shoulder. As he walks, you see him pull his hair into a little ponytail with one of his invisible magic strings. You tiptoe behind him as he ducks into the house, skirt swishing around him as he moves.

The inside of the workhouse is comprised of little more than a row of shelves, hosting a variety of meticulously organized tools. A wooden worktable is shoved into the corner, an unlit lamp hanging above it. You almost stagger backwards as you enter; rows upon rows of lines hang from the ceiling, the same sort of material as your improvised fishing line last night, and each row holds upwards of ten lavender bunches. The scent is overpowering. As you inhale, you can practically feel the lavender majiks seeping their way into your skull, burrowing into your sinuses like smoke.

Dirk looks back at you, chuckling, his ponytail fully secured now. “You alright?”

You shake your head, attempting to dispel the smell. “Yes, peachy keen, dear. It’s just— a lot.” You lean on an entrance arch for support, a tad lightheaded.

“Don’t pass out on me,” Dirk chides you, crossing back over to the archway where you stand. He holds a pair of identical silver blades, one in each hand, curved like tiny scythes and splendidly ornamented with all sorts of opal and quartz inlays at their handles. Neither looks particularly sharp, and upon further inspection, you can see the places where the metal is scratched and worn from years of use.

Dirk holds one of them out to you. You take it, twirling it inquisitively. “Fancy blades you’ve got here.”

“Most of the things I’m provided with on this island are fancy.” Your oracle leads you back you out of the workhouse, walking a ways up the path. He stops next to an area thick with flowers and waves you over with his hand. “Now, watch this.”

Dirk bends over and crouches next to a clump of lavender with tall, deep green stalks and dark purple flowers. You attempt to pay attention, forcibly dragging your eyes up from his very pale and very attractive legs.

“See how the bottom of the stalks here are brown and woody?” He gently gathers a few stalks into his left hand and gestures to the bottom of the plants with his knife. You do, indeed, see where the stalks turn from green to brown, sturdy and desaturated at the base. “You don’t want to cut into this part, because the plant won’t grow back. I tend to cut around here,” he moves the knife higher on the stalks, stopping about midways, “where the stems are the straightest and greenest.”

You bob your head slightly in comprehension, watching the careful way he gathers more stalks into his grasp, positioning the curved knife behind them. You note that he doesn’t wear gloves; lavender harvesting is a gentle form of gardening, so you assume he doesn’t need to protect his uncalloused hands from the debris of the earth. Either that or he just doesn’t own a pair and doesn’t want to bother the gods to ask for one.

All at once, he slices swiftly through the bunch of lavender, severing the stems halfway down. A few strands of hair not caught in his ponytail drift in front of his face. What a charming, working man he is.

“That’s all there is to it,” he says, clutching the bisected plants in his fist. “Typically I cut thicker bunches than this. You might be able to cut even more at a time, considering you’re stronger than me, but if you have too many stalks together, you won’t be able to tie them up.” He lays the blade on the ground before putting his fingertips together and then pulling them apart, producing a thick purple twine to secure the bundle with. As he ties a little bow, he looks up at you, lips pursed. “I suppose I can give you some string to hold on to, if you promise not to lose it.”

You flush in embarrassment. “I promise I won’t lose it this time! That fishing line was so thin, I can’t fathom how you expected me to keep track of it, what with my terrible eyesight and all.”

Dirk chuckles, pulling a couple long pieces of string into existence for you. “I’m kidding. If you need more, just ask.” He hands you the string and points his knife at some lavender stalks, gesticulating in a circle with it. “Most of these dark purple varieties should be alright to harvest now. Lavender blooms year round on the island, so you have to look at each individual plant to make sure the blooms are ripe. If they look old, you can prune them if it suits your fancy. If they look like they haven’t bloomed yet, leave the plant alone. Understood?”

You nod obediently, winding the string around your wrist for safekeeping. “Yes sir, noted and understood.” As you look around at the many varieties of lavender, your eyes catch on some daisies. “You don’t want me to harvest the plants that aren’t lavender, no?”

Dirk shakes his head in confirmation. “No. Those are decorative.” You watch as he gracefully cuts another clean slice through a bunch of lavender, trying it up with his magical twine, his fingers smoking a little as he forms the string.

You crouch, ready your knife, and start harvesting alongside him. It’s methodical work, and you’re almost certain your bare back is going to be all kinds of sunburnt by the end of the day, but Dirk’s presence beside you is lovely, comfortable—all the incentive you need. The scent of the lavender is as strong as ever, but the clumps of darker varieties you’re working with aren’t as sickly sweet as the pink and violet flowers that so rudely assaulted you yesterday in the statuary.

It seems that Amaranthine is good at inspiring a sense of peaceful calm in you, like some kind of sedative paradise. Having so little to worry about is almost a shock to your overworked systems after a week of fretting about your grandmother’s funeral, and you revel in your newfound ability to be genuinely present in the moment.

True to form, though, you don’t end up staying present in the moment for very long. You habitually drift off into the realm of daydreaming, turning over day old thoughts in your head. You think about the prospective adventure you posed last night, and how you’re going to pull it off this evening. It would make sense to travel under the cover of night, but you’re not sure a midnight jaunt in your boat would be practical. You would hate to make Dirk miss his beauty rest, and if you are to impress him with the world he’s never seen, you want him to have a good, fun, non-sleep deprived time. Besides, you know how your oracle feels about aesthetics. The world will appeal more to his tastes when it’s sunny and bright and inviting. Though… is it possible he actually prefers the nighttime?

“Do you prefer the daytime or the nighttime?” You ask, swiveling to look inquisitively at him and pushing your glasses up on your nose with your pinky finger.

Dirk cocks his head at you, giggling as he ties up another bundle of lavender. “Interesting question. Why do you ask?”

You shrug, slicing another set of stalks in half. “No reason. Er—it’s a secret.”

He ponders for a moment, pulling more plants into his gentle grasp. “Nighttime. It’s much easier to look at the stars. Plus, I don’t work at night, so I have time to read.”

Hmmmm. Maybe a midnight trip to the mainland would be the best option, then? You allow yourself to sneak a peek at Dirk’s legs and then turn your gaze back to your work. What sort of adventure are you going to take him on, anyway? What can you show him that he hasn’t already seen? Your manor is out of the question, simply for the sheer familiarity of its aspect. Perhaps someplace in the city? You’re not sure how exciting the coastal cities are at night, but you  _are_  sure Dirk’s never been down a normal street, so he might have fun anyway. Perhaps a traditional Dersian garden? He might be interested in seeing mainland plants.

Unfortunately, your options are limited. If you are to travel during the moonlit hours, you can’t bring him to any fun daytime attractions like the theater. And if you stick with this nocturnal schedule, when will you come back? Tomorrow morning? Would Dirk be too tired to work the next day? You should ask him if he has any calls.

“Hey, Dearest, do you—Oh.” You realize as you slice another bunch of lavender that you’ve run out of string. “Can I have another piece of twine?”

  
“No, Jake, my divine string is only available in limited quantities. I’m afraid you’ll have to make a sacrifice to me if you want any more.” He says, handing you a piece. You chuckle, typing up the bundle in your hands, and he looks at you expectantly.

“What?” You ask.

He ties up his own bundle, blinking at you. “You were saying?”

“Hm? Oh, right.” You remember your train of thought now. “I was going to ask, do you have any calls tomorrow?”

Dirk shakes his head, pulling some stray leaves off of his harvesting knife. “Not that I know of, though that could change.”

You smile brilliantly at him. “Oh, that’s splendid! See, I was thinking,” you say, twirling your string absentmindedly around your finger, “I know we agreed to have an evening adventure, but it might be more to our advantage if we took that timeframe and bumped it up into more of a night adventure? We may be less likely to attract attention under the cover of the stars.”

Dirk squishes his mouth to one side, thinking, and then nods. “That sounds like a good idea. I’m amenable to this amendment. You know more about travel than I do, after all.” He stands up and brushes off his dress, straightening it, drawing your gaze unwillingly to his legs. You…  _just barely_  manage to avoid looking up his skirt. “We can spend the rest of the day finishing chores, then. Would you like to bring these plants to the workhouse and then take a short bath?”

You smirk, gathering your bundles of lavender in your arms. “Ohoho, short, you say? Are you trying to imply something about my stamina?”

Dirk laughs, grabbing all his bundles and getting them organized in short order. You stand to face him, and he leans in, giving you a quick kiss on the lips. “Your stamina is better than mine.”

“That’s not saying much, dear!”

The two of you start walking back to the workhouse, you deliberately bumping into Dirk’s shoulder every once in a while. You have maybe twenty bundles of lavender between you both. Dirk’s look neater and cleaner than yours, but hey, you don’t think anybody on the mainland is going to care about Amaranthine’s quality control. Most of the flowers in your arms are a dark purple color, but Dirk’s are a variety of shades, two bundles even a stark white color.

You hold up one of your plum colored bundles. “What kind of lavender is this?”

“Hidcote superior. It’s one of the darkest varieties on the island. Blooms only once a year, so I have to be careful not to miss any.”

“What about that white kind you’re carrying?”

Dirk holds up the flowers in question. “This? Edelweiss. These cuttings are a variety of  _Lavandula intermedia_ , meaning they’re lavandins.”

You tilt your head. “Meaning what?”

“They’re a cross between  _Lavandula angustifolia_ , common lavender, and  _Lavandula latifolia_ , spiked lavender. They get taller than common lavender in my experience, and they’re highly popular on the mainland for oil extraction purposes.”

He holds out the bundle for you, and you take a quick whiff. The white flowers smell more woody than the ones in your arms, thick and camphoric. You sigh happily. “Ah. That might be my favorite kind yet.” Thinking, you furrow your brow. “Do you have a favorite kind? Or is that like trying to pick a favorite child?”

Dirk snickers. “You think I haven’t spent my entire life here debating and choosing my favorite lavender varieties?” He shakes his head. “I’m disappointed. You should know me better by now. My favorite scent-wise is  _Lavandula intermedia_ , Gros Bleu. It’s clean smelling. Plus, the flowers are a dark sort of bluey purple, and I like those better than dark purple or pinkish varieties. My favorite to look at, though, is  _Lavandula stoechas_ , Ivory Crown. It’s a funny shape. I’ll have to show you sometime.”

You smile fondly. It’s awfully entertaining, hearing him gush about his plants. “Why do they call it ‘Ivory crown’?”

Dirk hugs his bundles tighter to his chest, a little smile creeping across his face. “It has little white bracts that stick out at the top, sort of like bunny ears. I suppose somebody thought they looked like a crown at one point.”

You watch your oracle as he walks, lavender in his arms, the pleats of his skirt ruffling with each step. He looks so… in his element. “I’d like to see you in an ivory crown,” you muse. “A real one, not a flowery one. Not that I don’t think you look good in flower crowns! But you would look so fancy in a shiny little crown. Maybe a crystal crown, how does that sound? A really glittery one. Or an iron crown. Maybe you could actually manage to look intimidating in that. Or—Oh, I’ve got it, a tiara made of marble. That would fit with your aesthetique, no?”

Dirk gives you an odd look, like you just said something incredibly strange. He pauses before answering you, the gears in his head turning behind his butterscotch eyes. “I do have a tiara made of marble.”

“Oh,” you blurt out, eyes widening in surprise. “How funny.”

“But I don’t ever wear it,” he continues, worrying at his lip. “It has an unpleasant energy. Or maybe that’s not it, I don’t exactly remember. In some way or another it used to stress me out when I was younger, so I put it away in the library.”

You twirl your harvesting knife a little, your other hand in your pocket. “Well, if it wigs you out, it’s good of you not to wear it. You’re doing perfectly fine with your accessorization, from what I’ve seen.”

Dirk’s expression relaxes and he smiles fondly, adjusting his lavender headpiece. “Thank you, your honor, you are too kind.”

You laugh. “Really, truly, your flower crown is so cute! Did you make it yourself?”

Dirk shakes his head, deadpanning at you. “No. The gods made it for me.” You open your mouth to reply, but he snickers before you can get a word in. “I’m joking.”

“You’re awfully sarcastic for a demigod,” you chuckle.

“Have you met enough demigods to judge?” He quips, lifting his brows at you.

You shake your head, smiling. “Touché.”

You reach the workhouse and follow Dirk inside, breathing through your mouth so as to avoid being attacked by the scent of drying lavender again. Dirk holds a hand out, and you assume he wants the harvesting knife back. You give it to him and he quickly stashes both blades away on some shelf, returning after a moment to start hanging his bundles from the ceiling lines.

You hang yours up alongside his, and it’s only a short minute before your work is done. You glance up at all the hanging bundles in awe. Dirk must spend countless hours tending to the plants on this island, all so that the rich nobles of Derse can have pretty flowers to spruce up their living rooms. It almost makes you sick. Gods above, he doesn’t even get paid for what he does.

Dirk must notice your sour expression, because he takes your arm, looking up at you with concern. “Feeling alright?”

You nod, flashing him a smile to dispel his worries. “More than alright. Just thinking about how tedious it must have been to collect all this,” you gesture to the bundles hanging above you.

Dirk makes a noncommittal little hum. “Tedious but necessary.”

You move a hand to his waist, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “We didn’t even pick any of the sacred kind today, did we?”

He catches your mouth, kissing you sweetly. “Correct. I made a shipment recently, so it will be some time before I can cut back more. I can only harvest about half at a time.”

“Hm, why’s that?” You ask, only half paying attention, pressing your nose into his neck.

“Sacred lavender burns in pairs. If a senator burns a stalk on the mainland, a stalk will ignite here,” he says, leaning into your touch. “Sometimes the gods will forget to tell alert me of an incoming call, but at least I can always tell by the smoke.”

You ponder that for a moment, closing your eyes as you lean into Dirk’s shoulder. You didn’t notice any smoke yesterday when Dirk was called to see senator Serket, but then again, you suppose you weren’t paying very much attention.

Dirk kisses you, sharp and tart. “We’re dawdling. Don’t you want to bathe?”

Oh boy, you nearly forgot. “There is nothing I would enjoy more, my lemondrop.”

“Then stop groping me and get your feet moving, you shameless voyeur,” he laughs, twirling out of your arms and pulling you toward the path behind you.

“Pah! I am no vouyer! You’re just—impossible to tear my eyes away from, Dirk, you’re like a famous painting, or a fanciful swan of some kind…”

You continue to spew compliments all the way to the bathhouse, entwining your fingers with Dirk’s as you walk. The journey is swift. The two of you enter the familiar bathhouse, the water still crystal clear and bubbling from whatever magical jets the tub is outfitted with.

After a moment of unremarkable banter, you both remove your clothes. Dirk gathers salts and such from the cabinets as you sink into the pool, sighing.

“Its warm this time,” you notice.

“It’s been warm since yesterday,” Dirk tells you over his shoulder.

The idea that water could maintain this temperature for more than 24 hours despite no apparent heating apparatus seems contrary to everything you’ve ever learned about the laws of nature, but you’re not going to question godly magic.

Your oracle tosses some fanciful things into the bath and slides in next to you, pulling his legs up over your lap. You let your head rest back on the lip of the tub and exhale. It might be nice to close your eyes for a moment...

 

* * *

 

 

Morning light streams through the thin windows of your library, illuminating green cushioned furniture and an array of children’s games strewn across the floor. Your grandmother stares down at you with her owlish, spectacled eyes, smiling so big the sides of them crinkle. You sit next to her on your fainting couch, your short little legs not even reaching the carpet below you.

Your grandmother ruffles your hair. “What are you looking so pensive about, there?” She asks, her voice full of mischievous, innocent cheer.

You shake your head, swinging your legs. “Nuthin’,” you start, “just thinking about green.”

She laughs, her eyes twinkling. “What, the color?”

“Yeah, the color,” you nod. “Our whole house is green, Gran, why’s that?”

“Because it matches our eyes, of course!” She points animatedly to her irises.

You furrow your brow in thought. “You couldnt’a bought a house to match your eyes, Gran.”

“You’re a bright little one,” she chuckles. “I didn’t buy this house, my mother’s grandmother did when she moved here. She liked the color.”

“That means she was your…” You think for a moment. “Great great grandmother?”

“Something like that! She sure was great.”

“Where did she live before she bought this house?” You ask, your little eyes wide.

“She lived in Prospit with your ancestors, Jake,” Gran pats your head.

“Why did she come to Derse and buy a big mansion?”

Gran smiles, but it seems strained. “Your great great great grandma wasn’t safe back in Prospit. A lot of bad people didn’t want her to live there, and she had to leave.”

You frown, looking up at into Gran’s big circular glasses. “Why? Did she break the law and get in trouble?”

Gran shakes her head, chuckling lightly. “No, sweetheart. She didn’t do anything wrong. All sorts of people had to leave Prospit when the bad people took over. It used to have so many people living in it, it was a whole country, you know.”

You gape at her, tugging at her shirt sleeve with a tiny hand. “Prospit used to be a country like Derse?”

“Yup. But the bad people made your great great great gran leave, and all of our other ancestors too, so when Derse and Prospit went to war, there weren’t enough people to fight.”

“... And Derse won the war?” You elaborate, looking up at her for confirmation.

“Precisely.” She sighs and draws you into her side with her arm.

“Am I from Derse or Prospit, then?” You ask.

Gran shrugs. “Where do you feel like you’re from?”

You take a minute to ponder that question and find you can’t come up with a definite answer. “I live in Derse, but the kids at school don’t really look like me. Sometimes they ask if I’m from Alternia, since I’m so weird.”

Your grandmother turns her gaze upon you sharply. “Who called you weird?”

“Nobody, Gran, I just think I am,” you answer, somewhat honestly.

She plants a kiss on your forehead. “Don’t let anybody call you names like that, Jake. You’re much smarter than most of the kids in your school. Being different is good—do you know why being different is good?”

You shake your head.

“Because being different means you will learn to have a better imagination. And with a good imagination you can learn to do all kinds of things, like write and speak and tell stories.”

You lean into her embrace, your head against her side. “I already have a good imagination.”

She laughs and pulls you close. “That you do, kid, that you do.”

 

* * *

 

 

When you blink your eyes open again, Dirk is an inch away from your face, gently shaking your arm. You clear your throat, re-orienting yourself in the tub.

“Wakey wakey, sleepyhead,” Dirk smiles at you, giggling. “Figured I would let you take a nap. I know humans need your sleep, and we’re going to be up a long time tonight.”

You rub sleep from your eyes. “Abraxas above, did I fall asleep in the bath?” you ask, only half wishing for an answer, because you know full and well that is exactly what you did.

“A tad. I went ahead and bathed you while you were off in dreamland. Hope you don’t mind.”

You give him a scandalized look. “Dirk, how could you take advantage of me like that!”

He laughs and kisses your cheek. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were into that.”

Whoops. You’ve been found out. You catch Dirk in a kiss and run your hands over his shoulders in an attempt to distract him from that particular discovery. “I’m all pruney like a raisin now, darling, how long have we been in here?” You hold up your fingers to demonstrate your pruniness.

Dirk holds up his own unpruned, marble smooth fingers against yours and stares at your skin with interest. “How strange. Is that healthy?”

You snort. “No, I’m going to shed all my skin and die if I don’t get out of the water right now.”

“I sincerely hope that was a joke. Either way, it’s probably about time we do something more productive.” He raises his eyebrows, taking your hand and pulling you up.

You groan, closing your eyes again. “But I don’t want to get out.” Your head is still clouded with lavender fog, and the warmth of the bath is inviting.

Dirk bodily heaves you up and out of the water, setting you on the lip of the tub. “I think we should go down to the library now. That might clear your head up some.”

You perk up at his mention of the library. It seems as if Dirk’s been mentioning it rather often, but you still have yet to see this mysterious underground atheneum of his. You nearly forgot he promised you a visit today. “I might be swayed to leave the bath if libraries are involved.”

“You’ve already left the bath,” Dirk ruffles your hair and climbs out next to you.

You just sort of… slide your legs down, back into the bath, not breaking eye contact with Dirk.

He catches you under your arms and pulls you back across the tile. “Ohhh no you don’t. Just stay right here and I’ll get you a towel.”

“But it’s cold, dear,” you whine, trying to keep the smile off of your face.

A short moment later, the two of you have dried off and re-clothed yourselves. Well, you’re still barely clothed in just your flowy pirate pants. And Dirk’s little dress is debatably just as skimpy. You’ll probably have to change before you take your midnight trip to the mainland—people might mistake you for circus performers. Or prostitutes. Or both.

Dirk takes your hand and leads you back through the island, down the center path and to the building opposite the workhouse. You almost can’t tell the difference between the two structures—they’re identical in construction, just crumbling in opposite corners.

The top level of the atheneum looks like the workhouse but filled with sparse stacks of books instead of lavender. Minus the hanging bundles, of course. You’re not sure how one would hang a bundle of books. There’s a comfy looking chair facing the entry arches, and a small set of shelves containing reading materials and some other unspecified objects, mostly tea kettles and salts.

Peering into the barren corner, you see a trap door. You flash Dirk a grin of excitement. “Down there, huh?”

“Not very fancy, I know,” Dirk raises an eyebrow.

You shake your head. “On the contrary, I think it’s positively ingenious. So minimalistic, so adventurous.”

He crosses to the trap door and props it open, and you see a rickety ladder leading down into what would be a plain old subterranean cellar if Dirk hadn’t so inventively repurposed it.

“After you,” you wink, motioning to the ladder.

Dirk descends, and after a moment, you follow.

At the clap of his hands, the pink lanterns illuminating the room brighten. You stand in a rectangular chamber, about the same in dimension as the workhouse above it. The four walls are lined with bookshelves, eight feet high and built of sturdy, knotted wood. Two chairs, one a deep maroon and the other a lush purple, sit facing each other with a small marble pedestal-table between. A stack of books rests atop the table, and a tall, golden harp sits next to one of the chairs.

You beam. “Oh, Dirk, it’s lovely!”

He sits easily in the purple chair, crossing his alluring legs. “It’s not much, but it’s rather cozy.”

You walk over to the shelves to start examining the titles, much the same way Dirk did in your library when you first met. Dirk removes the top book from the stack atop the pedestal and sets it in his lap. Then, he reaches to his side and runs his finger carefully down the side of the harp. The gold metal lights up with whitish lavender writing, almost molten and smoking slightly under his touch. You watch in awe as he pulls his hand back and the harp starts to play of its own volition; a slow, elegant tune.

“You never told me you had a magic harp,” you say, gaping at the instrument.

Dirk smiles at the book he’s now propped up on his knee. “It’s not particularly magic in its own right. I just enchanted it to repeat songs.”

“So you’re saying you play?”

He nods at you, not looking up from his book. “Violin, too.”

You whistle and grin, sneaking glances over at him as you peruse the shelves. Your oracle is a talented man.

You spend maybe five minutes with your head turned sideways reading the spines of the books until you reach the last set of shelves on the far wall. These few shelves actually don’t hold books—instead, they house a variety of knick knacks and treasures. You see a white violin, a metal octopus-shaped necklace tree holding Dirk’s jewelry, and a little statue of a whale. Tucked in the corner behind a jar of shells is a tiny white tiara, most likely the one Dirk mentioned when you were cutting lavender earlier.

A simple box marked with a familiar symbol catches your eye. You pause, considering it. “Dirk, what’s this?”

Dirk glances over at you. “I’m not sure. I’ve never been able to open it. It’s been in here since I can remember.”

You trace the symbol with your pointer finger: a beaked snake twisted into an intricate knot. This engraving was on all of your grandmother’s lockboxes, the ones she used to fill with candies and leave on the kitchen counter for you when there were guests over. Only you and she could open those boxes. You never understood why when you were younger, but you think it has something to do with a special enchantment that only those who share your blood can disengage. It was an old party trick you and your Gran liked to impress business-folk with, sure, but you always sensed it was some sort of family secret too.

You hold your palm over the carving and press in. The box clicks and unlatches, the top popping up like a music box.

Dirk whips his head up, closing his book and staring at you. “How did you do that?”

“I um,” you struggle for words, “family secret? The engraving—it’s a symbol of Abraxas, like my grandmother used to use for lockboxes.”

He looks at you like you’re the most intelligent person he’s ever met. “I didn’t know you were from the Cult of Abraxas.”

You wince. “I don’t like the word cult.”

Dirk stands up in a flash and grabs the contents of the box out from under your nose—a small, leatherbound book, maybe a journal. He flips it open to the first page and stares for a long time.

“No need to be a secret hogger, Dirk, let me see,” you try, but he holds up a finger to silence you and starts to pace as he reads.

You sigh, sinking down into the maroon armchair and watching Dirk. He’s being a little rude, but you suppose if you lived in a place your whole life and couldn’t get a mysterious box open you would be curious about its contents too.

His face is stony when he pauses on a page halfway through and stops pacing. He tilts the book, sifting through the remaining pages, and then closes it.

You furrow your brow, worried. “You look like you saw a ghost, dear.”

He hands you the journal without a word.

You pry it open gingerly. Its binding is worn, but at least it doesn’t look like it’s going to collapse any second. The first page is written in perfect cursive script:

 

 

“ _Dearest diary,_

_I have had to start a new diary, since my old one was attacked by one of my brother’s crows. Although you are merely a personified concept that I speak to in order to ease the act of writing, dearest diary, I nonetheless hope that you bore no sentimental attachment to the old book. We must make do with what we have, and this journal is all I have on me in light of my purple journal’s tragic death. Try not to mind._

_As for our usual discussions: I met the most beautiful girl today. We talked for hours at mother’s gala. She is half Prospitian and half Alternian, and she lives in a white cottage on the sea shore. I can see it from the palace. She even let me dance with her, which girls don’t usually do. She’s a wonderful dancer, though awfully tall. She told me she sewed her own dress, which I think is very impressive. I think one day I am going to invite her to the palace for a cup of tea._

_Wish me luck,_

_Rose Lalonde_ ”

 

Glancing up from the book, you see Dirk staring at you. You worry your lip. “Is this the Princesse’s diary?”

“Seems to be,” he says. There is no discernible expression on his face.

You flip forward a couple pages in the book.

 

 

“ _Dearest diary,_

_Today I brought Kanaya out to the Lavender Isle. Trying to get a moment to ourselves in the palace with mother and Dave running around proved an impossible task, so I got creative. We stole a rowboat to paddle out. It was rather rebellious of us. I had been to the island before, but I didn’t know what all the buildings held. Did you know there is a bathhouse?_

_Well, as my diary, you theoretically only know what I myself tell you. So you did not know there was a bathhouse until now. Unfortunately, we didn’t get up to any lascivious activities at the aforementioned bathhouse, but next time we go, the island is our oyster. Perhaps I will bring a change of clothes for us._

_The central gazebo seemed tragically barren. It has such a beautiful edifice, but inside there is only a single desk. I think I’ll have some furniture shipped to the island, probably without mother’s permission. Maybe a bed. And a wardrobe. Then Kanaya can have a place to keep our changes of clothes._

_Dear diary, I think I am in love. I often call you “dear,” so I hope you don’t feel affronted by my redirection of affections. Maybe Kanaya would be open to including you in our relationship._

_That was a joke. Dear gods, I hope she never reads this._

_Always yours (and, newly, hers),_

_Rose Lalonde_ ”

 

Gulping, you flip quickly through the rest of the journal. It looks like at some point it shifts from a diary to a sketchbook, littered with little doodles of people and flowers. The last filled page is torn halfway out and doggy eared, almost as if someone meant to take it out of the book but then reconsidered. It has a long note written in the Princesse’s perfect handwriting and a sketch of...

 

 

“ _The Prince_

_A young child wearing a flowing white sheet. Design still in progress. Perhaps I will give him a sword in his left hand._

_My dearest,_

_Apologies for my subpar penmanship. My time is short. This is to be my final project, for I fear I will not survive longer than it will take me to sculpt. I have a drinking jug, and I have been able to fish as we have always fished here, but I grow weaker every day. I sleep little and think of you often. It would be unwise for me to send this letter by raven, so I can only hope that you come back to this place one day and find it where I left it._

_More than anything, I wish for you to someday see this project completed. I plan to leave it in the statuary. This marble prince will be the last child born of Derse royalty, a final proverbial “fuck you” to those who condemned us for failing the throne, either due to our inability to produce an heir or our defeat at the hands of the Church of Hope. They were wrong on both ends about those failings; this will be our heir, and as long as ravens still fly and night still falls, Derse will not be wiped from history, just as Prospit has retained itself all these years. I can only hope that you and the others back at home manage to call in more forces, or form an alliance, or at least surrender before more lives are lost. Anything you can do. I want so badly to return to you, but after what the Church did to Dave, I fear nothing good would come of it. If I were executed too, the Dersian people would be crushed. Better to waste away here where the Church will never find me, and let hope survive for as long as it can._

_Because I will probably be dead by the time you read this, I wanted to tell you goodbye. I will forever regret that I cannot do so in person. Please accept this final creation of mine as a parting gift. I can only pray that I am able to finish him before the elements finish me. I have been working on thinking of a name for him, but I can’t decide on anything, as per usual. Enclosed in this letter is a list of possibilities. If I don’t decide on one before I die, I will leave the statue unlabeled, and you may choose your favorite. Or perhaps we can both let the gods choose for us._

_With deep and unabiding love,_

_Rose Lalonde._ ”

 

You thumb to the next page, which is blank, and find the list of names scrawled on a little slip of paper, shoved in close to the binding. It reads:

 

“ _Should start with a D or an R, as per family tradition._

_~~Ralph~~ _  
_Roland_  
_~~Derrek~~_  
_~~David II~~ _  
_Remus_  
_Ren_  
_Renly_  
_~~Destiny~~_  
_Damien_  
_~~Dean~~_  
_~~Duke~~ _  
_~~Darl~~ _  
_~~Dan~~ _  
_~~Dandelion~~ _  
_~~Richard~~ _  
_~~Roy~~ _  
_~~Romeo~~ _  
_Dominic_  
_Dirk_

_Thoughts?_ ”

 

You stare up at Dirk, your mouth ajar. “This is a drawing of you.”

He nods, folding his arms.

“The Princesse…” you start, thinking aloud in an attempt to wrap your head around the situation, “made a statue of you, and then wrote to her girlfriend about it, but I don’t see a statue of you in the… Oh.”

Dirk raises one eyebrow a fraction of an inch.

“The statue is you. I got it, the statue is—you’re the statue,” you say, bewildered, and Dirk just nods at you again. He doesn’t seem as struck by this news as you might expect, but upon further consideration, you reason he’s probably fighting to keep his composure under that stony countenance of his.

Hah, stony.

Really, Jake? Now is not the time for making puns in your head. This discovery has all kinds of implications, some of which you barely understand. If Dirk is the late Princesse Rose’s… son, creation, whatever—does that make him heir to the Dersian throne? It would if Derse still had a throne, but you’re not sure if the government even recognizes the royals anymore.

“I need to go speak with the gods,” Dirk says, and he abruptly swivels and climbs the rickety ladder out of the library.

The trap door swings shut behind him. You rub your temples. Best not to follow; you want to give him his space.

Knowing Dirk’s origins does explain a lot of things, like his pale, freezing skin and his lack of a discernible heartbeat. You still can’t puzzle out the weird statue of Princesse Rose, though. Did the Princesse die here? Times like these make you wish you payed more attention to your history classes in elementary school.

Whatever the case, it seems that her “final project” ended up being more than just a piece of marble. You’d venture a guess as to say that was the god’s doing. Whoever she left her journal for clearly never came to pick it up, unless—no, it would be impossible for her to know you would be here. The more plausible explanation is that the gods felt bad keeping all of this a secret from Dirk and sent you over.

… Surely that wan’t the only reason they wanted you on the island, right?

You swallow that thought down like bad tasting medicine and stand. The journal feels like lead in your hands, so you set it down atop the stack of books between the chairs. Ah, Dirk meant to re-shelve these, you think. At some point the magic harp stopped playing, so the library is drenched in a solemn silence.

You leave it behind you and climb the ladder up to the top level, closing the trap door and looking around for Dirk. You find him sitting on the ground leaning against one of the entrance columns, staring into the distance.

You plop down next to him. “What’d the gods say?”

He sighs quietly. “They told me you were the key.”

“We already knew that, didn’t we?” You lean into his shoulder, placing a hand on his thigh.

He rests against you, closing his eyes. “I think they mean in multiple ways than one.”

“Hey,” you kiss his cheek, “listen, dear, I don’t mind that you’re… made of rock.”

That gets a little laugh out of him. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Why don’t you stop moping, then? Come on, you’re just wallowing in godly angst here. You need a vacation. Remember, you promised me an adventure tonight! Let’s skedaddle and leave this mess for tomorrow, love, what do you say?”

He purses his lips, looking somewhat exasperated.

You cock your head innocently. “What?”

“The gods told me you would say that,” he says, standing and offering a hand to you.

You let him help you up to your feet. “And did they tell you to listen?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

You grin and pull him in close to kiss him. You will show this man an adventurous good time if it’s the last thing you do.

With that thought, you whisk him away to your rowboat on the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Thank you for reading! This chapter title is (like the last one, ooh, how symbolic) from Various Storms and Saints by Florence + The Machine. As always, all chapter titles are taken from songs on my fic playlist.
> 
> Here is the map of Amaranthine that I mentioned in the notes of the last chapter: http://kiyye.tumblr.com/post/177810261158/owo-whats-this-its-a-map-of-the-island-from  
> I think as of this chapter Jake has visited all the places on the island!
> 
> Here is a doodle of Dirk's skater dress from this chapter: http://kiyye.tumblr.com/post/177853110918/sneak-peak-of-dirks-outfit-in-the-next-oracle-au  
> Some more doodles of him can be found on my art instagram if you are interested!
> 
> Also, it bears mentioning that the bulk of my lavender knowledge is drawn from a book called "The Lavender Lover's Handbook" by Sarah Berringer Bader. Thank you Sarah for fueling my obsession. It's a pretty cool book if you're the kind of person who likes to buy books about gardening and then use them to write dirkjake fanfic instead.
> 
> (The rest of my lavender knowledge is from google. Thank you google.)
> 
> As I have previously stated, there are 7 (maybe 6) more chapters planned for this fic! I've also started working on the fic that's going to be my main project after this one. It's tentatively named Common Tongue and if you're interested in it (or interested in early access to this fic's new chapters) go check out my patreon B))) 
> 
> LAST BUT NOT LEAST: tumblr user heroboof drew a loooovely lovely rendition of Amaranthine that is my new laptop background!!! it is ABSOLUTELY PHENOMENAL so please go check it out right over here: http://heroboof.tumblr.com/post/177957516903/ive-fallen-dearly-in-love-with-kiyyes-gorgeous
> 
> that's all! see you next chapter folks!


	7. What's The Matter With Hopeful?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk and Jake go on an exciting adventure. Things... don't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOO sorry about the long wait, school has been kicking my ass to the moon and back! Today we learned that I write to cope!!!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy :D There are some warnings in the endnotes if you fancy taking a peek, cause this chapter is a little less lighthearted than the rest!

“I suppose now we know why the statue of the late Princesse freaks me out.”

You look up from your rowing and raise your eyebrows. You’re surprised that Dirk has elected to bring up the incident again. “And why is that?”

Dirk blinks at you from across the boat, the water twinkling in the moonlight behind him. You wish you were a painter, because you would love to capture this moment on canvas.

“She’s a corpse.” He turns his gaze down toward his knees. For your journey, he’s changed into an ankle length lavender dress, draping over his shoulders and cinched at the waist with a dark purple sash. You’ve donned your tunic from two nights ago, wrinkled from lying haphazardly folded on Dirk’s floor.

“She’s a statue, not a—”

“Yes, she is,” he interrupts. “She’s both, I mean. It was an exchange of life. They froze her in her final moments and then…” he trails off and gestures to himself.

“Oh,” you gulp. You hadn’t thought of it that way.

He leans an arm on the side of the rowboat, so light he hardly rocks it. His skin is almost glowing against the black skyline. “I’m glad to finally know after all these years, it’s just strange.”

“Strange how?”

“Just strange,” he shrugs. Predictably, his dress slides down his shoulder. You aren’t planning to have sex in a tiny boat anytime soon, but if anyone could tempt you, it would be him. “It’s uncomfortable to think about it. Don’t you feel weird when you think about your heart and your veins and such?”

“Not particularly. But maybe that’s just me. I can also see how thinking about a lack thereof would be especially weird.”

He holds his hand up to the light, turning it and staring at the blueish shadows that fall in the recesses between his thin fingers. You don’t like to see him frown like that.

“We shouldn’t be talking about something so depressing on such a lovely night! Look at the stars, Dirk, they’re positively brilliant. Aren’t you excited to see the mainland?”

He smiles at you a little, his lips turning up. “You could say that.”

You chatter on a little more but eventually fall into a comfortable silence as you cross the bay. Dirk looks awfully pensive, but you suppose he has every right to be.

Technically, anyone of your heritage could have unlocked that box. It’s not like it was left there for you. Still, something sits uneasy in you when you consider the circumstances. The more you try to make spontaneous decisions, the more it seems like the gods have planned everything out without your knowing. You don’t like that prospect. You’ll hang onto your illusion of free will as long as possible, thank you very much.

The Princesse wrote that she left the box for someone named Kanaya. You think long and hard on the name. Isn’t there a senator named Kanaya? For once you wish you had payed more attention when your grandmother tried to impart her political opinions onto you.

Anyhow, you’ve never met any Kanayas. That is an unfortunate fact, because deep down you realize your primary discomfort with regards to the whole “hidden journal” thing is that the Princesse’s letter _still_ hasn’t been delivered to its rightful recipient. Your moral compass is spinning anxiously at you. Typically you don’t even _have_ a moral compass. Something about the invasion of a dead woman’s privacy and then a subsequent failure to deliver her final will really wigs you out.

“Do you know anyone named Kanaya?” you abruptly ask Dirk.

To your surprise, he nods. “She’s a senator.”

Aha! You knew that. “Do you plan on…”

“Delivering the journal to her? Yes, I do.”

You gulp. You kind of hate it when he almost reads your mind like that.

“I didn’t think visiting her would factor into our... adventure, here. Did you have other ideas?” he ventures.

“Oh, no,” you say, shaking your head. “I was just thinking about it. Of course it wouldn’t be sensible to bring the journal out on the water like this and try to sneak it into a senator’s house.”

“That’s the least adventurous thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he laughs.

It’s only a short while before you reach the shore. You beach your little ship on the dunes near your house and drag it up under some dry bushes where it won't be seen in the dim light.

Dirk looks up with wonder at your mansion. His eyes shine like pale, molten gold in the night.

“You live in a temple, dear,” you laugh, “what’s got you so starblasted about my house?”

“It’s just... big from this angle. It always looked so small across the water, like a little green splotch.”

The symbology of a green light as seen across a body of water representing a sense of longing seems awfully familiar to you. Maybe in some subtextually homoerotic novel you read once in school.

Still—while the mental image of Dirk staring curiously across the bay at your house is rather tropeish, it’s also rather adorable. You take his hand as you lead him up the dunes and onto the thin path leading up to the docks.

“Hey!”

You jump at an unfamiliar voice as you and Dirk climb the creaky stairs up toward the docks and the main road. Pulling Dirk closer, you swivel your head around to locate the voice’s owner.

A short man all in black stands leaning against a wooden pole jutting out of the planked floor, tilted a little as if pulled off-kilter by years of sea winds. He’s smoking some kind of rolled paper and wearing suit with a slick fedora pulled down nearly covering his eyes.

“You bitches got a permit?” he snarls.

You’re finding it hard to compose yourself in front of this strange man after not having seen another person aside from Dirk for a matter of days. Avoiding people like this was _exactly_ the reason you wanted to take Dirk adventuring at _night_. So much for the cover of darkness.

“You hear me?”

You clear your throat. “A permit for what?”

Dirk is just staring at the man curiously, leaning into you slightly. The man tosses his smoking paper to the ground and stomps on it. He has an exceptionally rude disposition, you decide.

“Let me learn you a little somethin’, boys. Folks need a permit to come traipsing around the docks at this hour. We’ve been havin’ a boat thievin’ problem on our hands.” He grins like he’s caught you in some kind of illicit act. “Where’d you two get that little piece of shit canoe you came in here on, huh? Purchased it with your good money?”

“It’s my rowboat. I live in the green house right up the way,” you stammer.

The man barks a laugh. “Yeah right! A Prospitian cultist lives in that fuckin’ mansion? You think I’m stupid? You foreign fucks don’t have enough money between the lot of you to rent out a single room in that place.”

Dirk’s expression has darkened considerably during this exchange. He looks chiefly concerned, and maybe a little indignant. “I think you’re being pretty unreasonable. This is Jacob Harley, whose family has considerable influence around this district.”

“Considerable influence!” the man snorts. “Where’d you learn to talk so fancy, skeleton boy?” He advances a step. “You’ve got a real valiant air about you, kid. Looks like I’ve caught me a filthy witch and his white knight. How romantic.”

“As the sacred Oracle of the Lavender Isle, I would advise you to watch your fucking mouth when you talk to—”

A pair of enormous hands grab your shoulders and yank your arms behind you. A tall man dressed similarly to the rude man steps out from the shadows beside the docks and takes a step toward Dirk, who backs up and stumbles into the same wall of a man who’s holding your arms.

“Dirk!” you yelp, attempting to knee the man behind you. You struggle against his hold to no avail.

The tall, slender man shoves Dirk’s wrists together and pulls him to face you. A short little man comes up to stand next to the rude man, who is grinning like an animal.

“Witches get stitches,” he says.

“Now hold on gentlemen, let’s be civil—” you croak.

The huge man behind you spins you around and clocks you in the jaw. You black out.

 

* * *

 

 

A horrible pain radiating from your head and mandible wakes you up. You sit up fast and rub at your swollen eyes.

Everything is dim. You’re sitting in some kind of jail cell. An unidentifiable liquid drips slowly from a little hole in the ceiling, splattering onto the floor a foot away from the cot you’ve been lying on.

Dirk is not with you. Your pulse pounds in your ears like a cacophony of drums at a particularly rowdy funeral. _Dirk is not with you_.

You have never been received so antagonistically in your own neighborhood before. Sure, when you were a kid people in town and by the beach would shoot you dirty glances when they saw you playing with expensive toys. People at parties would make well intentioned but insensitive comments about your family history when you were a teen. People in shops often didn’t believe you were an aristocrat until you paid for their expensive wares in full.

But you have _never_ been attacked outside your house before. Not even the times you’ve walked around the beachfront at night. Home always felt safe in a childish, unquestionable sort of way.

You should not have taken that safety for granted.

_Dirk is not with you._

You don’t know what to do, so you start crying. That’s often what you do when you’re fresh out of luck. You shake as you bury your aching face in your hands.

What a fantastic fucking impression of the mainland you’ve given Dirk. What a fantastic fucking impression of _yourself_ you’ve left him with. You got decked by a bunch of sleazy dock wardens on your own front lawn.

You wouldn’t be surprised if he never wanted to leave the island again. This, unfortunately, puts you in the position of having to choose between a life with him on an unsustainable magic island or toughing it out yourself in the real world.

Or maybe it doesn’t! Because maybe he never wants to talk to you again! Or maybe he’s locked up in some oracle jail for leaving the island and he’ll never see the light of day again and—

You heave a breath. Okay, Jake. Be reasonable. Dirk implied that the gods wanted him to come with you to the mainland. If the assholes up there are planning all this out, there must be some reason you were jailed by nefarious racists. A shitty reason, probably. Why can’t the gods just spirit you and Dirk away to some realm in the clouds where you can go on as many adventures as you want without ever having to talk to people?

You seriously never want to talk to anyone ever again.

“Hey in there,” a woman’s voice calls.

Dammit. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle into your hands in an attempt to compose yourself.

“You alright? I was instructed to release you when you woke up. Senator’s orders.”

You look up in surprise at the woman. She’s wearing a police cap and looks absolutely dead inside.

“If you’re alive, you can go,” she says in a monotone voice as she unlocks your cell door and holds it open.

You scramble up and swipe your hair out of your face. “Thank you,” you try to say, but it comes out embarrassingly broken.

She doesn’t even reply—just stares at you with blank eyes and nods at the door. You hustle out and walk one way down the corridor of cells, stopping briefly to rub your eyes and catch your breath before stepping outside. Then, you book it to your house.

You fall down into the atrium carpet as soon as you make it through your doors. The high ceilings seem to pull away from you, refusing to provide comfort. You choke out a muffled noise into the carpet.

It’s only been about two days since you’ve been in this house, but it feels like it’s been a lifetime. The chronic sense of emptiness the whole place took on when your grandmother passed almost crushes you now. It’s amplified by the dust collected in your stint away from home, by the hollow air that seems to wallow in its purposelessness without partygoers to gulp it up.

You absolutely do not want to be here right now, but you have nowhere else to go. Or, you suppose you could at least go to a more familiar room.

You find your bedroom exactly as you left it, though your bed almost looks alien after sleeping with Dirk on his fancy plush canopy mattress. You flop down on it all the same.

Your stomach churns with the aftereffects of fear and anxiety taking over your system. That, and probably hunger. Your eyes are still wet from your crying fit earlier, and your head hurts like hell. You curl into yourself like a little kid, clutching your abdomen.

Your life is kind of fucked right now, isn’t it. There is no way you can resign yourself to a future of hosting extravagant parties in this ugly old mansion, hoping desperately that nobody will ruin your name by slandering your religion or exposing your scandalous affair with an attractive oracle man.

Just as you’re about to throw up from sheer hopelessness, a flutter of wings and a familiar, annoying caw penetrate your curtain of despair. You jerk your head up.

A raven perches on your windowsill with a note tied to its scrawny leg.

“Come here, blasted idiot,” you mutter, stumbling out of bed to grab the letter. You remove it swiftly, and the bird flies off without so much as a goodbye.

Worst case scenario, this is some bill or fine in light of your imprisonment. Best case scenario, it’s a letter from Dirk. The striking white of the paper gives you hope. You unroll the note.

“Please come see me. Senator Kanaya fired the guys in hats.”

You almost choke with glee. You feel like an arrow of pure silver bliss has been shot into your heart.

The Lavender Isle may be tiny and lacking any sources of human food, but it sure as hell beats Derse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chap: violence/bruising, fictionalized racial slurs (like not actual racial slurs but there are some charged phrases flung at jake that function as slurs in-fiction), One Sad Hopeless Boy, one shameless gatsby reference (see if u can spot it)
> 
> My life got taken over by other projects halfway into writing this chapter but I'm glad I finally churned it out! Unfortunately there is no sex but next chapter will Definitely feature sex
> 
> As always, the chapter title is taken from a song on my Oracle AU playlist! Today's lyric is from President Heartbeat by Everything Everything.
> 
> The next chapter of Lavender is already in the works, as is my new fic project Common Tongue! You can get early access to both of those things on my patreon :DDD (my username on there is Kiyye)
> 
> That's all folks! Thanks for reading!!!


	8. You Don't Want To Be Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk and Jake finally reunite after their stressful mainland adventure. They discuss strange dreams and future plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! It's a new chapter! This chapter does in fact contain sex. Also, light mentions of bruising/injury. Hope you enjoy!

 

You race down the stairs and out of your house to your little rowboat, which is still parked safely in the dunes by the beach. You can hardly fucking believe those black-hatted clowns sent you to jail for “not having a permit” to walk around your own goddamn neighborhood but failed to locate or confiscate the boat they thought you stole. What bozos.

You push the boat off into the water and hop in. The Isle is like a little white speck against the maroon horizon. It’s probably five in the morning at this point. You had enough sense to throw on a handsome change of clothes and grab a bag of dried fruits before starting off, but that’s about all you wasted your time with. You can figure things out when you get to the Isle. Right now you just have to row.

Dirk is waiting for you in a nightgown on the steps at the shore. You drag your boat up on the beach and quickly embrace him.

“I was summoned while in custody,” he explains, his voice saturated with concern. “I had orders sent to release you and punish the guards who assaulted us.”

You press your face into his neck, clutching him tightly. “Oh gods. I missed you.”

He threads his hands in your hair and kisses your temple, possessive and loving and just the way you like it. Gods, you missed him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, pulling away with some effort to examine your jaw. He winces when he sees your bruise.

“Fine and dandy. Hurts like a whole bottle of hard liquor to the face, let me tell you, but it looks worse than it feels.”

Looking at him now, you notice a dark patch on his cheekbone. It almost looks like a bruise, but it’s more purple than you’ve ever seen on a normal human—which you suppose makes sense considering his unique physiological makeup. Upon further inspection, you see little lines spreading up his cheek from the mark like burst veins.

You frown and reach out to cup his cheek. “Can I?”

He nods, and you run your thumb over the lines. They’re textured like cracks in a stone. You gulp.

“It should heal over,” he assures you.

“How do you know that?” you ask, worried. “You told me you’d never been injured before. And you’re made of—well, rock—so how can we be sure you won’t—”

“Crumble like a weather worn statue?” he asks. You barely have the strength to nod. “I asked the gods. They didn’t seem to think it was an issue.”

There’s a hardness in his voice you’ve never heard before, a sort of resigned determination, a subtle oath to exact revenge on the cruel Fates for their misdemeanors. It worries you, sends all kinds of shivers down your spine. He always used to be so gentle with his words.

You kiss his other cheekbone—the clean, unmarked one. “Can we please go lay down? My arms are killing me.”

“Of course,” he nods, his hair spilling forward like a dewy spider web to veil his eyes. He takes your hand and leads you up the stairs and down the path to the bedroom gazebo.

Once inside, Dirk parts the curtains and falls back onto his bed. You collapse on top of him, head on his chest and arms around his waist. His knee is between your legs, and he pushes it up conspicuously against you.

You gasp softly, thumbing over his ribs. He coaxes you up to kiss him, but after a minute you wince at the effort it takes to work your bruised jaw, so you just end up dropping your head into his neck as you move against him with scarcely any semblance of rhythm.

“I missed you,” he whispers, barely audible and so close to your ear.

“I missed you too,” you groan, shifting to adjust the angle of his knee pressing into your dick. He pulls your suspenders off your shoulders and slides his hands under your tunic. In retrospect, you probably shouldn’t have even bothered wearing clothes.

Touching him like this after being apart feels like sinking into a hot bath. Or, a cold bath, since it’s Dirk, but a very nice refreshing cold bath. Maybe if baths could be hot and cold at once? You’re sure that something he could whip up with all his fancy god magics.

It occurs to you that you and he were probably only separated for a matter of hours. Under other circumstances, you would be concerned about the apparent attachment issue you’ve developed here, but Dirk seems just as desperate for your contact, and you think that sort of dependence is rather romantic if it’s mutual.

Dirk tilts his head back and sighs, making an “o” with his pretty mouth when you press your leg into his crotch. You run your hands over his nipples through his nightgown.

“Fuck, Jake,” he says, gripping the back of your neck, “I want you to fill me so entirely I’ll never feel like I’m without you again.”

You moan into the crook of his shoulder. “Yes, my darling—please let me.”

He arches his back as a signal for you to climb off of him. You roll over to lie by his side. He gets up on his knees and removes his nightgown. You see a purplish mark like the one on his cheekbone flowering beneath his ribcage, little cracks spreading like veins.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he tells you, flashing you a critical glance. You didn’t mean to stare, but you can’t help feeling bad about the mark. It’s sort of your fault he’s injured.

“It’s not your fault I’m injured,” he says.

Dangblastit. It’s so annoying when he reads your mind like that. But it’s also very sweet, and more than a little attractive.

“I know,” you respond halfheartedly, not really believing him in the slightest.

You start removing your trousers and suspenders and tunic. You feel a weight leave the bed and peek out of your half-removed shirt to see Dirk standing up. You make a dismayed noise.

He raises an eyebrow. “Patience, dear gods, do you want to stick it in dry?”

Ah.

Right.

You’ve never actually put your fiddle inside a gent, so lubricant hadn’t crossed your mind thus far.

Dirk returns to the bed with a small amber bottle. You’re not sure where he produced it from, but you’ve long since stopped questioning this island’s resources.

He lays back and hands the bottle over to you. You’re slow to open it, because the sight of him all sprawled out and waiting for you is awfully distracting. He’s hard as a rock—cock wise and general texture wise—and the purple marks over his cheek and rib are, despite how they make guilt leak into your throat, pretty sexy. You’ve always been into exotic, adventurous people, and the only thing more exciting than an elusive, alluring demigod is an elusive, alluring demigod who knows how to have a good romp. You can make pretend like he knows the first thing about fighting, maybe that the bruises were on purpose.

“Jake.”

His sharp voice draws you out of your musings. You uncork the bottle and slick your hands up with the lubricant, sighing as he lets his legs fall further open in anticipation of you.

“Have you ever done this before?” you ask, your breath hitching as you wrap a slick hand around your dick.

“We’ve been over that,” he half groans, “I haven’t, not ever.”

“No, no, I know _that_ , I just mean—have you ever put anything up your…?”

He looks tremendously confused by your question. “Um. Of course? What do you think I do to relax?”

You laugh. It’s just like him to be so innocent about his own lack of innocence. How cute. Then, you’re hit with the mental image of Dirk cozied away on some summer night fucking himself with his own fingers by lamplight. Oh boy.

You situate yourself between his legs and hoist his ass up, holding him like that so you can enter at a good angle. He’s moaning before you’re even touching him. You start by tracing one of your already slick fingers around his hole, and you waste no time slipping it into him and twisting your wrist.

You encounter very little resistance. Either he’s weirdly relaxed right now, or being a made of godly living rock makes his muscles work a little different than yours.

“Oh, gods,” he whines, “yes, Jake, you’re so warm.”

He gasps and cries out when you enter him. You start slow, since you’re worried about hurting him. Considering how relaxed he feels it’s most likely the temperature that’s got him so vocal. You’re only a quarter of a dick into him, but so far he feels… not warm, not like you’d expect a normal human asshole to feel, but not too cold either. It’s pleasant.

“You’re beautiful,” you tell him. He catches your gaze with his half lidded butterscotch eyes, and you groan as you push further into him.

His legs hook obligingly over your shoulders. _Oh_ , that is a better angle. Now you push all the way into him.

“Oh,” he moans, shutting his eyes. “Oh, gods, oh—Jake.”

“Good?” you ask.

He nods, his breath coming fast and heavy. “It’s so good, fuck, it’s _so_ good.”

You start moving in and out of him at a leisurely pace, reveling in the smoothness of the action. You’re not sure if you’re experiencing an unusually even slide because he’s anatomically perfect and made of marble, or if it’s supposed to be like this, but it’s absolutely brilliant. He feels a little warm now from the friction, which you’re loving.

“I missed you,” you moan.

He thrusts his hips in slow time with you, and sighs, “I love you.”

You nearly start to tear up as you fuck him. Not from the motion, not from your bruised jaw, not from any intense expression of emotion—just from those three gentle words you haven’t heard since you were a child.

You don’t ever want to be anyplace again except here on this bed, completely absorbed in him, listening to his voice like a church choir and warming him up from the inside.

“I love you too,” you choke back.

You continue thrusting into him for another minute, your pace increasing as he allows. When you feel the heady peak of orgasm begin to overtake you, he says, “Finish inside of me, please, Jake.”

You gasp and can’t help but comply. He comes just a moment after, tilting his head back so you can see the swan curve of his neck as his hips stutter and he spills out onto his stomach.

You slowly pull out of him and fall to the side, winding an arm around his neck and pulling him close. He has his eyes closed and his lips locked partway open, still panting.

“It’s… _so_ warm,” he mutters into your neck. You tuck his hair behind his ears and the two of you fall asleep just like that.

 

* * *

 

You snap to awareness in a place so bright your eyes start to water as soon as you open them. The windows are pitch black, so it must be night outside, but the interior of the room reflects white in all directions. Between the rows of quartz columns holding up the ceiling like the bones of a great leviathan and the tiled floor shining like calcified milk, you might as well be staring at the full moon through a telescope. Light floods the negative space around you like spilt flour, or like fuzzy angel’s wings, until you can hardly make out shapes amidst the glow.

You realize with that you’re… floating? Or maybe standing atop the domed ceiling looking down? You don’t feel like you have a body, so you can’t twist around to suss out your positioning kinesthetically or vestibularly, but your vantage point gives you the impression you’re at the topmost point of the room. Like you’re trapped in a ceiling mural.

Five elaborate stone chairs stand on the far side of the room, arising smoothly from the ground with no legs, only skirts of solid rock. They don’t look very comfortable, and only two are occupied.

A tall woman sits in the middle chair. She wears a long robe of jade velvet, tied at the waist like the kinds of dresses Dirk wears. Her skin is warm and dark, and it stands out like ink against the white room. She’s gripping her chair’s arms with force and leaning forward, her stern expression attempting to covering some kind of doubt or fear.

A shorter woman sits to on the arm of an adjacent chair. She’s wearing cuffed suit pants and a wrinkled teal vest, and she looks very tired.

“This is way outside of regular summoning hours, Kan,” the short woman yawns, covering her mouth with sharply manicured nails. “Are you sure it’s gonna work?”

The tall woman furrows her brow, staring forward. You realize her concentrated look arises from the fact that she is intently watching a slowly burning piece of lavender in a silver dish a couple feet in front of her.

“I don’t know,” she says, her words accented and precise. “You’re the expert.”

The short woman rolls her eyes which, strangely enough, have no pupils amidst their milky red irises, and brushes some of her dark hair out of her face. “Well, we’re about to find out,” she says, snarky.

A familiar purple shadow appears on the floor in front of the two ladies, and smoke curls around the space above it as your oracle apparates. His lavender dress is falling off one shoulder, but not in a... sexy way. He looks disheveled, and he’s shaking a little. The purple bruise on his cheek is visible even from your vantage point several feet in the air. It looks harsher than you remember, like it’s a more recent wound.

“Your honor,” says the tall woman in green, bowing her head and averting her eyes for a moment. She opens her mouth to continue, but Dirk interrupts.

“Senators. It’s the middle of the night,” he says, his voice pointed like a lethal accusation.

“Sorry about that,” the shorter Senator says, addressing Dirk with a suave, comfortable informality that startles you. “Maryam got spooked in bed, so it was an emergency.” Her sarcasm bites. “We only have a couple questions—”

“Who employs the guards by the docks in front of the Harley manor?” Dirk snaps.

The Senators meet each other’s eyes, perplexed. The shorter woman slowly replies, “Which shift? The new midnight crew was just hired,” she counts on her fingers, “three weeks ago by one of our regional overseers. The daytime guys are local hires, I think.”

“I want them fired,” Dirk says. The Senators shrink back under his gaze. “I want the nighttime workers fired and fined.”

“What...” the shorter woman starts, “What cause do you have to…”

“I want them fired _now_. And disciplined. And I want a new night crew sent in, and for the new hires to release any prisoners taken into custody in the last hour.”

“Terezi—” the woman in green says, looking to the shorter woman for explanation.

Terezi stands up, her attention fixed on Dirk. “We don’t keep records by the hour. It might be hard to specify who you’re asking for.”

“Fine, then, give them orders to release...” he swallows, carefully picking up the neckline of his dress and attempting to compose himself. “There’s a man named Jacob Harley who was unlawfully arrested. He’s Prospitian and has green eyes. And tell them to release me as well.”

Terezi nods and exits the room without further questions. Dirk breathes a sigh of relief.

“We will make sure your requests are honored,” says the woman in green.

“Senator Kanaya,” he says, softer, finally addressing her. “You called for me.”

“What happened to you?” she asks. A pause. “That didn’t come out like I—what I mean to ask is, are you alright?”

Dirk nods. “I’m okay. It’s a part of the adventure I’m meant to be having, I assume.”

“You’re hurt,” her gaze flicks over his cheek.

“I’m _okay_. I have much to tell you.”

She sighs and leans back in her chair, relaxing. “That’s what I thought you would say. I had a terrible dream, and I felt like I had to… That you had the information I needed.”

“She isn’t coming back.”

Kanaya winces and closes her eyes. “I’ve known that for a long time.”

“No. You’ve been clinging to the hope that she would. I’m sorry, but she’s gone.”

“And the gods only told you this just now?” she asks.

“You could say I found out on my own. Either way, the gods didn’t want either of us to know until now.”

A heavy silence hangs in the room. Kanaya doesn’t meet Dirk’s gaze, and her stately shoulders seem to sink with each passing moment.

“I do have something of hers to return to you, though,” Dirk says.

Kanaya jolts up again. “A possession?”

“Yes,” Dirk nods. “A final testament. It will tell you all you need to know about her, and about… me.”

The Senator looks at him with maternal concern. “Your honor, your tone worries me. What would _she_ have to do with _you_?”

“I may not see you again after tonight,” he states.

Kanaya stares for a moment, then nods. “Do what you must. May the light of the gods always guide you.” Her simple blessing reminds you of your grandmother and the familial sort of wisdom passed down from her ancestors to your household, and to all those who share your heritage.

As you think of your grandmother, the brightness of the Senate rooms starts to fade. The night outside crowds in and overcomes the scene, plunging you into nothingness. Before you lose consciousness, you hear a woman’s voice call to you faintly.

“Try not to forget this one,” she tells you, the smile palpable on her invisible lips.

 

* * *

 

Dirk is beside you when you wake up. You shift, trying to draw him closer without waking him, but his eyes flutter open. He’s already awake. A smile passes over his lips as he watches you.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

You pepper his cheek with kisses and drop your face into his neck. “I had a strange dream,” you say, muffled.

“Mmm,” he hums. His hands play absently with your hair, nails soft against your scalp. “I did too.”

“Really?” you mumble.

“Yes. It was rather illuminating.”

“Well,” you yawn, trying to rub your eyes without moving from your spot against his neck, “mine didn’t make much sense. I was floating in the sky? And you were there? Talking to these two ladies? I forget what about.”

Dirk stiffens and cups your cheeks to bring your eyes to meet his. “In the Senate house?”

“I suppose it did look… Senatey, yes.” You narrow your eyes. “Why?”

“I suspect that was more of a vision than a dream,” he says, kissing you soft. “The Senate house is where I was summoned yesterday, and how I was able to free you.”

Your eyes widen. “Right, yes, I remember now! You got quite intense and sent the short lady to fire those brutes from the docks!”

He laughs and presses you back into his neck. “The gods have strange plans for us, I fear.”

“What was your dream?” you ask.

He thinks for a moment. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Aw,” you pout, “so secretive. I’m holding you to that promise.”

Your romantic morning scene is broken when your stomach growls loudly. Dirk raises his eyebrows.

“Should we find some sort of breakfast for you?”

“I brought some fruit from back home this morning. No idea where I put it,” you say. “Wait, what time is it? Is it still… morning? How long were we asleep?”

“It’s the next morning. You slept almost twenty four hours, Jake.”

You balk. “An _entire day_?! That’s impossible! Balderdash!”

“The island will do that to you,” Dirk says, extracting himself from your tangle of limbs and standing to stretch. You feel much too lethargic to think about getting it on, so you content yourself to watch his perfect, shifting muscles with the simple, romantic eye of a poet. Or a man in love. Or a poet in love. Though, poets in love probably think about getting it on a whole lot, so maybe your comparison isn’t very good.

After quickly rummaging around Dirk’s room you locate a pair of long, jade colored pants to wear. You also find the bag of snacks you brought along and start munching on slivers of dried banana. You get a sinking feeling in your stomach when you think about how you’re going to survive on this island with hardly anything to eat. Not to mention hardly anything to do, and a constant aromatic sleepiness that threatens to overtake you every time you breathe in. But you’re not going home now.

Dirk sits next to you on the bed, clothed in a light lilac gown with a high collar. Pleats extend from the collar down his neck, ending in a curved “v” shape on his chest. You’ve never noticed it before in any of his other garments, but this dress is obviously designed for a woman. He looks lovely. You rest your head against his shoulder.

“You look troubled,” he says.

You make a little noise in protest. “I’m just thinking.”

“About what, dear?”

“It doesn’t matter. I think I’m just hungry. I’ll feel better when I’ve had all this nutritious frutitious fruit.”

Dirk purses his lips, not quite a frown. “Would you like to go to one of the nearby islands or to the mainland for food today? I won’t have you starve.”

You nearly choke. “What? No!”

“Alright?” he arches his brow, tilting his head quizzically. “We don’t have to.”

“I just—” you sputter, “I didn’t think you would much be eager to go back to the mainland after that whole ordeal!”

“I wouldn’t say I’m eager,” Dirk agrees, “but I don’t intend to let one negative experience ruin my opinion of the whole rest of the world. The gods have warned me against such generalizations.”

You feel… relieved? You’re not exactly sure why. Some big question has been hanging in the back of your mind and the weight of it is only hitting you now.

“It seems like you have something to say,” Dirk tells you.

“I suppose I was a tad bit afraid that you wouldn’t ever want to leave the island again, is all. And of course you know I want to stay where you are, and if you never wanted to leave the island again, that would mean I would have to stay here forever, and I don’t know if I could...” you take a breath, “I don’t know if I could do that, in truth. It’s just not sustainable! I mean, I know it’s sustainable for you, but…”

“Is it?” he asks. You have no reply for him, so you just stare. “Is it sustainable for me, I mean. Which is a rhetorical question. I don’t think it’s sustainable for anyone. And if you and I are to be inseparable, that includes me by default.”

You take a moment to process. “So… what are you saying, then?”

A dark, knowing twinkle in Dirk’s eyes catches you off guard. His irises seem to have deepened in hue, so slight it’s almost imperceptible. Where before they were light and desaturated like sunlit sand, they now glow like rich honey. “Remember a couple days ago when you mentioned running away?”

You gasp. “I do. Surely you can’t mean it.”

“I’ve already taken care of the business with Senator Kanaya and the late Princesse. She sent a clandestine messenger bird with me here after I was summoned. That is, of course, why I didn’t wait for you to awaken at the prison. The diary is now in her possession, so I have no loose ends to tie up on this island.”

This conversation is completely interfering with your ability to snack on fruit, so you put the bag of comestibles down and place your hands on Dirk’s knees. “Are you sure? It would be completely unreasonable for me to ask you to leave your home, the _sacred_ lavender isle of which you are supposed to be the caretaker, just to run off with me and—”

“I don’t mean to break up the narrative here, but I’ve already sort of made up my mind,” he tells you matter-of-factly. You can’t help but laugh at your genius, alien oracle. So willful he seems sometimes, but you can never be sure how much of that decisiveness is him and how much is the gods’ mandate.

“Will you… continue your duties as oracle? Will people still be able to summon you? Or—wait, who will tend to the lavender if you’re not here?”

“In my dream last night…” Dirks eyes darken further, and you want at once to pull away for fear of what he might say next and to wrap him up tight in your arms out of sympathy for his struggle to say it. “Do you remember how I told you sacred lavender burns in pairs?”

“Yyyyyyes???”

“That principle works both ways,” he says.

“... Aaaalright?” You aren’t exactly sure what he’s getting at.

“If I leave this island to live a different life with you, it would be inappropriate to continue my duties as the sacred oracle, not to mention inconvenient if I ever was summoned without warning. There is only one way to ensure I am never summoned again.”

His plan dances on the edge of your understanding, but you’re not quite grasping…

“To destroy all the sacred lavender.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t be serious.”

“Have you ever seen me more serious?” he says, deadly monotone. You shiver. You’ve truly never seen him serious at all before now.

“So you think we should… what, burn it all?”

“Precisely,” he confirms. You can hardly wrap your head around the idea; it’s more sacrilegious than anything you’ve done on this island thus far, and that’s saying something. But it would work. Some forgotten piece of knowledge lost deep in your head urges you to confirm, _yes, Dirk, it makes sense, Dirk, let’s burn it all_.

You swear you can already smell the smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH FINALLY THEY HAVE SEX AGAIN  
> I will never again write a chapter without sex /s
> 
> There is a small backlog of fanart and stuff that I have failed to link in the previous chapters, so please enjoy: [this lovely drawing from nrdarison](https://nrdarison.tumblr.com/post/178544668625/a-sketchy-lavender-dirk-with-his-latest-dress-from), [this sketch from teddy](http://galacteddy.tumblr.com/post/177275602386/anyway-heres-a-terrible-terrible-sketch-dump), [this other sketch from teddy](http://galacteddy.tumblr.com/post/179688995131/this-is-really-old-but-also-my-love-for-these), and [this other other sketch from teddy](http://galacteddy.tumblr.com/post/179655877616/som-sketches)
> 
> As always, the chapter title is taken from the lyrics of a song on my Oracle AU spotify playlist! This time around it's from "What You Know" but Two Door Cinema Club. Thank you for reading, and I'll see y'all next chapter! <3


	9. Proverbial Run To The Golden Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys plan a daring escape from the lavender isle (with the help of some pirates). Dirk is going full speed ahead, but Jake understandably has a lot of reservations about the entire situation. How will our dashing young couple fare as they venture out into the real world?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOO updating two times in a month! Can you BELIEVE that? Check the endnotes for content warnings, I don't want to spoil anything by putting them up here.

You’re sitting on Amaranthine’s eastern shore. The sun beats down on you in judgement from its vaulted seat at the top of the sky as you wait. Every time you blink, you think you finally see a bit of smoke, but it’s most likely been a trick of your eyes up until now.

Now, you _definitely_ see a lavender plume rising from a far-off patch of garden. There’s no mistaking it. Your lovely but reckless oracle, fully convinced his marble lungs were immune to smoky contamination where yours would not, forbade you from going with him to do the deed. You can only look on from afar as the fire starts. Your heart thumps with anxiety. There are a thousand ways this could go wrong.

On the bright side, with the help of a couple ravens you’ve successfully arranged safe passage with a friend of yours. The island going up in flames should act as an easy signal for her ship. Not that you doubt her reconnaissance abilities—Meenah Peixes is the most skilled navigator you’ve ever met.

It seems like hours pass as you watch each inch of the sacred isle slowly turn to purple smoke, a screen of heavy smog barring your view into the herbal carnage. This smoke is not thin or fleeting like the stuff that arises from Dirk when he apparates; it’s thick and deep and smells of foreign intoxicants. It’s still nothing like ordinary smoke, though. It’s very purple.

The more you mull over it, the more you think there must’ve been a better way. Maybe Dirk could have cast some magic spell to make all the lavender outside of the island disappear. Or he could have made the island invisible, so no new lavender would be harvested, and you could have waited to leave. Why did he need to get rid of the lavender in the first place? To avoid being summoned? Why was that such an issue, after all? Couldn’t he work part time? Or… right, he would reappear here after every summoning. Well, you could just come back and get him. You don’t mind playing chauffeur.

Unfortunately, your musings are of no consequence. Dirk is the kind of person to take something and run with it, and he won’t stop for anything save a new omen from the gods. But apparently the gods endorse this batshit plan.

Just as you’re about to gather yourself and run into the island to do something drastic, Dirk steps out of the cloudy curtain. No bags of dresses or books, just him by his lonesome. You scramble up to embrace him. When you try to shove your face into his neck, you start coughing.

“Don’t—Jake—Oh, do be careful, you’re going to choke or something. Smoke is bad for humans,” he says, forcibly removing you from his body, holding you at a distance.

You sigh through a steady stream of coughs and rub your eyes. “That took bloody long enough.”

The two of you turn to face the burning island. You can well imagine the tickling of indigo flames beneath the clouds, but for the most part the grey-purple mass of smoke obscures the whole scene. The white peak of Dirk’s bedroom gazebo is just barely visible.

You turn your back again quickly. The smoke is making your eyes water. Definitely the smoke, not any pesky emotions or whatnot.

Across the horizon you see the silhouette of a ship. Even from a distance, you can tell it’s one of those huge, three-masted galleons. In your mind’s eye, you can see the Peixes fuchsia flag flying high and proud. It will be a bit of a wait before the ship reaches you, so you sit your ass right down on the beach.

Dirk sits himself daintily next to you, flattening his skirt so as to not pick up sand. He leans his head against your shoulder. You can feel the heat from the fire on your back, but you try to forget about it for the time being.

“Did you get everything you need?” you ask. You can’t stand the idea that he might have burned all his possessions and pretty dresses down with the island, but he would certainly be the type to… do that.

He nods against you.

“You don’t seem to have any possessions on you, dear,” you press.

“Just this,” he says, producing his rapier. The silver glints viciously in the sun, reflecting purple.

“Blimey, where were you even keeping that?”

“Belt. Under my skirts. Figured it would be good to keep it secret.”

“That’s very sensible, yes.” You’re surprised by his sensibility.

You pass an indefinite amount of time in silence, you attempting to distance yourself from the scene to your back and Dirk examining his sword with mindless ease. _The books were all kept underground_ , you rationalize. _They’re likely still safe trapped in their little stone library chambers underneath the island_. If your grandmother ever instilled anything in you, it was a compulsory respect for books and a reflexive care for their treatment.

“The books are fine, Jake. So are the dresses. Fire wouldn’t dare impede upon god-forged marble.”

You sigh in relief. Mostly, you’re glad Dirk at least took the time to consider that variable. He’s not as reckless as you feared.

Sometime in the future, but not very much time at all, you can finally see your seaboard destination in clear focus. It’s a hulking beast of a ship, with flags a brighter pink than you remember.

The galleon sails close enough to send out a smaller boat, which progresses slowly toward you and Dirk. As it nears, you can see that it’s a shitty, beat up little dinghy. Some tall fellow with weird goggles is rowing; not Madame Peixes herself. You’re not surprised that she’s sent a lackey out to bring you in, but you sort of expected a fancier transport vessel, seeing as you’ve got the literal sacred oracle tagging along beside you. You’re sure her fancy royal warship has nicer rowboats to spare.

No matter. To your left, Dirk has slipped his sword back under his skirts and stood himself up. You follow suit, dusting off your clothes with the backs of your hands.

The creepy fellow in the goggles pulls the boat up close to the shore and motions for you to climb in. Dirk is… definitely going to get his skirts wet wading. He doesn’t seem to mind as you both clamber into the boat, but you think this begoggled gentleman could have been a bit more courteous. The man sits in the middle of the boat with the oars, forcing you and Dirk to settle on opposite sides of him. You are unreasonably anxious about being apart from Dirk, even by a couple feet.

“Are you one of Meenah’s soldiers?” you ask, trying to ease the tension.

The goggled gentleman smiles at you in an artificial sort of way. “Captain Peixes ordered me not to talk with you. She says my social skills are not yet… up to par.”

You shiver a little. No shit.

The rest of the trip across the sea to Meenah’s ship passes in eerie silence. Something about the whole situation doesn’t sit right with you, but it might just be that you think the tall man is sneaking glances at Dirk under his goggles. He has this long, slick, black ponytail that reminds you of a great big eel. Euck.

When you approach the side of the galleon, there is no fanfare. Someone with dark hair throws down a grimy rope ladder and the goggled man motions for you to climb up first. You do so reluctantly, glancing back at dirk to make sure this strange character doesn’t try any funny business. Luckily, Dirk ascends the ladder right behind you while the man stays down on the boat, ostensibly to sequester it beneath the hull.

When you haul yourself up onto the deck, Madame Peixes is standing against one of the masts surrounded by a small possy. They… don’t look much like soldiers to you. Isn’t this a war vessel?

“Look what the catfish dragged in!” Meenah shouts, grinning at you across the distance. She doesn’t wear the shiny Dersian uniform you last saw her in, when she was crowned Commander of the Imperial Armada. Like the rest of the crew, she’s clad in a variety of skimpy, cheap fabrics, her limbs wrapped in strange leathers and pink bandanas. She has two new eyebrow piercings and her pointed glasses are cracked on one side. New bangles adorn her thin wrists. You’re starting to feel a little alarmed.

A woman in a very tight, very short blue dress struts up next to Meenah and leans an arm on her shoulder. If you weren’t inordinately enamoured with a certain marble skinned man, you would be saying “ohhh sweet cerulean seminary” in your head right now. The woman’s short black hair frames her face, which is pointed and cruel in an academic, calculating way. A red corset cinches her waist to preposterous proportions.

“Seize them,” orders the blue-dressed lady, suggestive in her stance but absolutely authoritative, almost bureaucratic, in her tone.

You yelp a little against your will as a strong pair of hands grab you from behind, holding your forearms together. You twist but only manage to gleam that your captor is very, very skinny and very, very tall.

An equally tall man with broad shoulders and an intimidating mohawk grabs Dirk as soon as he steps onto the deck, who looks at you with unmasked alarm.

“Madame Peixes,” you try, gritting your teeth.

“Jakers!” she interrupts, leering at you. “Long time no sea! How’s it been, my dear frond? You been managing your load alright in the wake of a certain someone’s unfortunate passing?”

She bodily cackles at some joke you apparently didn’t catch. The blue-dressed woman looks at you coolly, but you see her gaze drift to Dirk with interest.

“We arranged for _safe_ passage, Meenah, I don’t know what you’re trying to—”

“Please,” Meenah twirls a braid, “spare me your blubbering, Joke Harley!”

Alright. Different tactic, maybe. “The Queen will be hearing about this if you don’t—”

“Enough!” Meenah shrieks, shrugging off the blue woman’s arm and snatching a tall, gleaming trident you failed to notice resting against the mast next to her. “Don’t you talk aboat the Queen. Can’t you shell?”

“Tell,” clarifies the blue woman. You mean—blue-clad woman.

“What?” you ask, confused, desperate.

“I don’t work for the imperial Dersian armada any moray! I’m a _pirate_ now, Harley!”

Dirk struggles against the man holding him, his dress slipping down one shoulder. He says, “Your lifestyle does not make you unbeholden to the gods of this land. If you harm Jake, I will—”

Meenah strides toward Dirk now, trident in hand. Your heart pounds in your chest. She could easily skewer him with that.

“Whale whale whale, what do we have here?” she grins. “A rogue oaracle. What a pretty buoy.” She jerks one hand up to cup his cheek, not taking any care to protect his marble skin from her knife-sharp nails. “Jake, did you brig me damaged goods?” she asks, aggressively turning Dirk’s chin to examine his bruise. “Not cool! I like my prisoners in ship-shape condition.”

“Don’t hurt him,” you warn.

“Hahaha! What are you, his mummy? His itty bitty maid?” she taunts as she runs a nail across Dirk’s cheekbone. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your buoyfrond. Eel be safe with me.”

She never quits with the fucking puns, does she. You have never wanted to kill Meenah Peixes more than you do right now, and that’s saying something. You give her the most threatening glare you can muster, and it makes you somewhat proud and hopeful to see dirk doing the same.

“The gods will strike you where you stand if you take that man prisoner,” he tells her.

She flicks her braids over her shoulders, drops her hand from Dirk’s cheek, and advances slowly on you, trident pointed at your chest. “I don’t give a flippering fuck what the cods do as long as I’ve got a prawn to ransom.”

“Gods… pawn…” translates the blue lady.

Meenah sways in her boots as she walks. She looks almost drunk with the power trip this pirate fantasy thing is giving her. You’ve known her for years, and you were always aware she was a dangerous, bloodthirsty type, but you thought you two were… chums. Leave it to you to project a higher significance on relationships than reality proves true.

“Don’t look so bet _ray_ ed! You know I codn’t resist this opportunaty,” she fake-frowns.

“You’ll regret this,” you hiss.

Meenah erupts into laughter again. “Take these guppies to the brig!” she shouts, smiling with masochistic delight and raising her trident over her head.

Dirk makes a sound of protest as his mohawked captor shoves him toward a hatch on the other side of the ship. The mohawked man loosens his grip to pull the hatch open. In the blink of an eye, Dirk manages to free his arms and draw his sword from under his skirts. You watch with horror as the thrusts it straight through the man’s bicep.

“Dirk!” you call, not sure whether you’re congratulating or reprimanding him.

Two more crew members converge on Dirk from behind, both busty ladies built like brick shithouses. One of them wrestles his sword from his hand. He manages to sock her in the lip and rip a piercing, which starts bleeding profusely, but the second lady grabs his wrists and kicks his feet out, shoving him down the hatch.

You gape at the remaining bloody-lipped woman in equal parts shock and fear. You don’t have the constitution to resist as you’re shoved after dirk into the hatch, but the man holding you knocks you out along the way, just for good measure.

 

* * *

 

You wake up with your head in Dirk’s lap. His nose looks flushed and crusted with something purple, and his eyes are swollen and dark. He blinks at you when your eyes flutter open.

It takes you a moment to gather your bearings. Where are you, again? A ship?

“What happened…” you try to ask.

Dirk curls his body over yours, cradling your head and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I don’t like your friend,” he says, his voice weak.

… Right, yes. Meenah. “Not my friend anymore,” you mutter. “She’s had a pirate fetish since we were tweens. I should have known she would go betraying people every which way as soon as the Queen granted her her own command.”

Dirk pulls away to brush your hair from your eyes, and his battered nose jogs your memory. 

“Are you okay?" you ask, tearing up against your will. "Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine. I hit my nose on the way down. I think it’s bleeding.”

You gulp. “I thought you said you didn’t bleed?”

He shrugs. “Suppose I just never had.”

You cling to the front of his dress and try to dry your eyes. “I’m sorry. This plan has gone horribly wrong. Every time I take you somewhere somebody tries to abduct us.”

“Seems they just can’t keep their hands off you,” he says.

You press your face into his chest and choke back a sob. He holds you steady, one hand on the back of your neck and the other on your arm. “Did they take your sword?” you ask.

He nods. “Good thing I didn’t bring anything else valuable.”

“And they didn’t say where they’re,” you hiccup, “where they’re taking us?”

“No, I didn’t hear. Peixes said we were being ransomed, though.”

You could probably easily outbid anyone within the Dersian area for custody of Dirk, but you don’t know what strange, foreign investors Meenah could be shipping you off to.

There’s nothing left to do but sink into Dirk and fall back asleep.

 

* * *

 

The void seems silent for an anticipatory moment.

“... Whaaaat? What is it?” asks a high, good-natured voice.

“Listen, man, I know the sleep time has been light lately but this is all kinds of important,” replies another voice, lower but quick and warm like still-cooling steel.

“Okay? Just tell me what is—”

“I mean it’s not, like, world-shatteringly important or anything, but I’ve got such a sympathetic story for you and really the whole thing’s relevant to us on a personal level, which, you know, doesn’t usually factor in when I’m asking you for favors, but this time it does, so I know you’d rather be chillin out asleep but trust me this is—”

“Okay! Okay, I got it! Just tell me the sympathetic story already, bro!”

“You know that kid Dirk? The kid who is basically my kid?”

The higher voice sighs. “How many times do we have to go over this. Just because you animated him doesn’t mean he is your kid. You’ve never even _talked_ to him, not to mention it was Cetus’s priest who carved him in the first place—”

“Okay, fine,” the lower voice interrupts, “whatever, you know who I’m talking about though yes?”

“Of course I know who you are talking about. You and Cetus never stop talking about the guy.”

“Right, well, Nix and I have been cooking up a sweet plan to get him and his boyfriend—”

“What?! He has a boyfriend? Why do you never wake me up for gossip!”

“Because you complain every time we wake you up, Typh. And you also make hurricanes and shit.”

“Point taken.”

“So, we finally decided it was time to get Dirk up and out of that old garden. But now he’s stuck in a pirate ship. And I need you to whip up a storm to get him out.”

The two voices still as a third presence enters the void. Your eyes are adjusting now—wait, how? where even are you? what’s your name again?—and you can just barely see veins of glowing red in the dark, almost like clefts of magma, bubbling faintly in the heavy air.

The third voice says, “dear brother, were you planning on interfering in my domain without asking permission?” This voice is sharp and deep like a violet abyss. “You know all seafarers are under my protection.”

“Cetus, heyyyy, I uh. I didn’t know you were this side of the ocean today. What’s shakin, sis?”

“I’m kidding,” Cetus clarifies, softer. “I am of course in favor of your plan to free the dashing young couple. I just wanted to mess with you.” She pauses and you can almost see an enormous head swiveling in the red-tinted blackness around you. “Typheus, do you agree to graciously provide a quick storm?”

“Sure!” Typheus replies. “But first you have to tell me a little bit about this new boyfriend. What’s his name?”

“Dude, we don’t have time for gossip now, we can go over it later—”

“Jacob English Harley,” Cetus interrupts. “Grandchild of Jade Harley, one of Echidna’s favorites. Hephaestus here and Nix have obviously taken a liking to him, as I’m sure you’ve been made aware. His family is traditionally of Abraxas’s order.”

They’re talking… about you?

Typheus exclaims, “Oh, will you give him something from me? I didn’t even know Jade had an heir.”

“Sure, yes, fine, one nepotistic newlywed gift coming right up for the handsome young Harley. Can we get going with the storm now?” says Hephaestus, impatient.

You think you see Typheus roll a pair of gigantic blue eyes. “Yes, we can get going. No need to thank me.”

Cold air rushes around you as you are pulled backward away from the three gods, the red cracks of magma fading from your vision. You realize with a start that you’re being dragged through water, not air. You try to gasp and cry out, but you’re not sure if you have a mouth or lungs.

“Oops,” says a fourth voice. A woman’s voice that you remember from sometime before, infinite like a blue void and melodic like coral windchimes. “I’m not sure if you were supposed to hear that!”

Her invisible hands pass over your formless eyes and you drift back into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: violence, betrayal, pirates, stabbing, punching, bleeding, abduction. Also magical arson at the beginning.
> 
> (violence, betrayal, pirates, stabbing, punching, bleeding, abduction, and magical arson sounds like a list of my kinks)
> 
> Oooooh boy. Shit's getting real in the Oracle AU, bois. Meenah and Aranea pulling a fast one on the boys just for the sake of pirate roleplay? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Also, fun game: guess which gods correspond to which guardians! Here's a hint: it's really obvious and it's based on their browsers/denizens. Typheus is Alpha John, Hephaestus is Alpha Dave, Cetus is Alpha Rose, etc.
> 
> As always, the chapter title is taken from a song on my Oracle AU playlist. This time it's from "The Island" by Vinyl Theater! Thanks for reading and stay tuned for the next chapter :D


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